


To Poisons and Their Antidotes

by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiP, AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Cocaine, Coffee, Dates, Deductions, Dinners, Drama, Drugs, Hand Jobs, Heroine, Humor, It's not a date, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marijuana, Oh but it definitely is., One-Liners, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Smut, UST, Uni Sherlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, more to come - Freeform, rt, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee/pseuds/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every poison has their antidote. Sherlock will meet the antidote to his poison in the most unlikely of ways. (AU. University Johnlock.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> AU. My first. This will eventually, in a way, kind of bleed into something a bit canonical. To the show, at any rate. Inspired by a silly post on tumblr, turned into... well, we'll see where this goes. Rating probably more than likely reflects later chapters buuutttt... well. Anyway. Happy reading? I hope?

The road is dark. Dark enough that the headlights of the classic Mercedes 300 SL Sherlock is driving don’t seem to illuminate much more than a few feet ahead of him. He barely notices, taking an elegant drag of the rolled spliff between his long, slender fingers and holding it in his chest. He exhales, shutting his eyes and blowing the smoke into the night sky. The wind is whipping through his dark curls, the top down in lieu of a particularly warm summer night. The stars are fairly visible that evening, just outside the city limits.

His brain is buzzing, but not in the usual sense. Not quite. It’s a quick, organized kind of buzz, one where every folder, every piece of information is sliding out of its cabinet and being reviewed. His mind is re-evaluating any and all things inside itself, keeping what it deems necessary ( _synthesis reactions, coagulation rate of blood, Elvis Presley, the dealer with the best gear_ ) and dumping that which has no use ( _solar system, little Angela Cormonsmith from primary school, algebraic equations_ ).

He is flying down the road, his foot a lead brick against the accelerator, Bach pulsing from the speakers in the car. He feels infinite and finite in the same instance. He could live forever or die at any moment. He sniffs, taking in the dirty London evening and holding it in his lungs. His hands leave the wheel momentarily, conducting the imaginary orchestra before him in large, sweeping gestures. He considers pulling over, for just another line or two, to keep him on the up-and-up, but he can see London's tall buildings coming into view. He pushes forward.

He doesn't look at the pavement as he hits the city limit. He knows the roads thoroughly. He knows every street by name and width and direction. He knows the alleyways large enough for a car to slide through, and the ones barely large enough for a body to slip into. He knows the sidewalks, knows the way pedestrian traffic seems to flow down each. He also knows that by two in the morning on a Tuesday, the streets are very nearly empty.

He is easily too confident of his knowledge and he knows this, knows he's being reckless and ridiculous, but it doesn't stop him from tearing through the small, familiar streets dangerously.

He takes his hand off the wheel, back to conducting the orchestra playing for him, waving his arm dramatically up and over and around the car. He slips the slowly-dying spliff between his lips in a grand motion. He is humming along with the viola contained in the piece. He knows it well. He's played it many times by then.

His eyes slip closed for just a moment.

It is in that moment that the music―Mussorgsky's “Night on Bald Mountain”--swells through his speakers. It is that moment when Sherlock, young and floating and buzzing and reckless, takes his hands from the wheel once again, conducting dramatically. He can feel the vibration of the music coursing through him, beautifully dissonant, outrageous and trembling.

It is in that moment when the light changes from green to red, and Sherlock takes no notice.

It is in that moment that John Watson, dizzy with terminology and lack of sleep, makes to cross the road without checking. He should be able to hear the orchestra coming for him, should be able to see the headlights racing right into his path, but he doesn't. He heaves his legs onto the crosswalk and begins walking.

It isn't until he is but twenty-five feet away from sleepy, dragging John Watson that Sherlock Holmes finally open his eyes.

It isn't until John can hear the squealing of tyres against the concrete that he lifts his head.

He stares only momentarily, dumbfounded, alarmed, confused, angered by the sight of the car barreling toward him. His body reacts faster than his mind. Just as the driver is pressing hard against the brakes, just as the horn is billowing noisily, he dashes away, practically leaping just in time for the car to careen past him. He's flat on his belly, breathing in the smell of oil and dirt and pavement, his breath laborious. He's certain he's just seen his life flash before his eyes, but he can hear the car's tyres still squealing against the pavement. He turns up quickly, flipping just enough to watch as the luxury car spins in the middle of the intersection.

Its turned one-hundred and eighty degrees, now facing John once again, but it has stopped. Smoke is curling up from the burned rubber of the tyres. The driver hasn't moved.

John is suddenly feeling nothing but rage. He jumps up, grabbing up his bag, and stalks toward the car. “Jesus Christ, what in the fuck were you thinking?” he yells. He's making his way very quickly.

Sherlock is motionless. His hands are gripping the steering wheel. His heart is thumping harder and faster than it had been before. He is staring straight ahead, breathing hard. His mind has seemingly ceased to function. His eyes flicker to the man coming toward him, and it kick starts his brain quickly.

_Shorter than me, though sturdier. Book bag slung over his arm―student. This late at night? Uni. This close into town? The closest thing about is Bart's. Medical student. Late night studying for an exam scheduled the following day. Terminology?―everyone's sore spot. Everyone crams for terminology._

His head swivels to meet the man. His eyes are dark blue. His hair is sandy and blond. Sherlock can see this from the street lamps. He's yelling. _Sherlock, he's yelling. Listen._

“Do you even have a permit? Are you supposed to be driving Daddy's car about this late? Christ, you almost... Oi!” he shouts, snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock jumps, realizing quite suddenly that the spliff he'd been smoking was now somewhere on the floor beneath his feet. He blinks rapidly, brow creasing in concern as he slumps forward.

“Are you even listening, mate? You nearly _killed_ me, just now.” John says.

Sherlock sits up, extinguished joint in hand, and looks back to him. John eyes the small, burned up piece between Sherlock's fingers and emits a sharp, unamused laugh. “You're joking.” he says with a sigh. He looks back to Sherlock's face. “Two in the mornin', drivin' about with a bit of smoke, not payin' attention...”

“The weed kept me level.” Sherlock says finally, his throat dry. He could use a gallon of water suddenly, or perhaps the rest of the cocaine stashed in the glove compartment. His heart is still racing, but it's no longer pleasant, and definitely not welcome. John stares incredulously. His mouth is gaping. “Level from what? You 'bout near did me in just then.” he says.

“Never you mind.” Sherlock grumbles as he finally punches the music off. He reaches for the door handle, shoving it open against John's legs. John is staring at him, wide eyed and slack-jawed, backing away and watching as Sherlock crouches down beside the tyres. “Are you even going to _apologize_ for nearly running me down?” John asks incredulously.

Sherlock turns his head, glancing at John over his shoulder. He smirks. “My apologies for nearly running you down. Now please, feel free to move on. You'll need all the sleep you can get if you're to remember the difference between _Keratoconjunctivitis_ and _Keratoconjunctivitis sicca._ ”

John's eyebrows furrow. “Have we met?” he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, half crawling toward the next tyre.

“How did you--”

Sherlock stands, sighing as he places his hands on his narrow hips. He looks at John. “How did I know you've got a terminology exam tomorrow? It's obvious.” he says. John simply stares. Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. He swallows, attempting to wet his throat, then points to John. “You're, what... early twenties, yeah? My guess is twenty-three or so. You're young but not too young to be out at this time.” he starts. John continues to stare, his face growing more and more confused. “You've got a book bag slung over your shoulder. It's pretty full up as well. So you're a student. Twenty-three year old student means you're in Uni.” Sherlock turns away, heading toward the back of his car. “It's two in the morning, you've got your book bag slung over your shoulders. Could say you've been working, but no one around here is open. Not on a Tuesday night. So, obviously, your school is close by. Closest thing to these parts is Bart's. So, medical student.” He squats down to investigate, sighing at the over-whelming smell of burned rubber.

“How did you know about the exam?” John asks lamely after a moment of silence, having followed him to each tyre.

Sherlock stands once again, turning to John with his hands in his pockets. “That was a guess. Sort of.” he says simply. He makes another round about the car as he explains. “Medical student who just left the school at two in the morning? He's been studying. Cramming, more like, for a difficult exam in the morning. Two subjects always flub up med students.” He turns, holding up a single finger. “Anatomy,” He holds up a second, “And terminology. Newer students, ones who would be taking an anatomy course, wouldn't look to use the library until two in the morning. Libraries generally shut down well before then. Older students tend to lurk about longer because staff know their habits.” He says all of this offhandedly, as though mumbling about the weather as he kicks the back left tyre.

“Therefore... terminology.” John mutters.

“Precisely. You catch on quickly.” Sherlock looks to John once, and despite himself, he flashes him a half smile.

John can't help a small smile either. “How do you know all that?” he asks. He hasn't forgotten that he was almost beneath the tyres Sherlock kicks at, but somehow he has let it sit on the back of his mind. He's fascinated, more or less, by the tall, lean, mop-topped gentleman before him.

Sherlock licks his lips, sighing. His heart is finally becoming normal. He's coming down quick, and though it grates his nerves, he acknowledges John's question. “I don't _know_. I see. I observe.” he replies.

“You just... look at someone and get all that?” John inquires skeptically.

Sherlock shrugs.

“Brilliant.” John laughs.

Sherlock looks back to him, smile back on his face. “You think?”

John shakes his head, still laughing. “I don't think, I _know._ Can you do that with anyone? Well, you have to, don't you? Didn't even know me and you could tell all that...” He's completely baffled by it. Sherlock can see this in his face. He can also see the pure exhaustion in his cheeks and in the small bags beneath his eyes. He glances over John entirely once before coming back to his eyes. “People aren't usually so... _understanding_ about it.” he states, shoving his hands into his pockets.

John looks genuinely confused. “What? How do you mean?”

“People generally don't regard my observations as _brilliant_ , is what I mean.”

“How do they generally regard them? You?”

Sherlock lets a small laugh escape him. “More or less, with a death glare and a nice, enunciated _fuck off._ ”

John hasn't been unobservant of the strange man. He too has been looking. He knows that the man is obviously intoxicated―the spliff he pulled from under the seat said that―but there's something else. Something he's not showing, not telling. John knows he should call the police, because he's almost been killed just now. But somehow, this bizarre man, without saying a word in his own defense, has convinced him not to. Instead, he finally holds out his hand, “John, by the way. In case you were wondering. John Watson.”

Sherlock glances from John's hand to John's face a few times before presenting his own hand. He settles it firmly into John's. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you. Even though, rightfully, it shouldn't be.” John says. He looks to the car, then his eyes quickly move around the area. They're still in the middle of the intersection. Strangely, no other cars have come by. He looks back to Sherlock, who is staring at him. “I mean, you did try and kill me just now.” John replies to the stern look on Sherlock's face.

“I wasn't attempting to _kill you._ ” he replies, “You happened to step out in front of my car.”

“Bollocks. It was my go, you were supposed to stop.”

“That doesn't give you the right to walk into the street without checking for cross traffic.”

“Are you trying to blame me for you nearly hitting me?”

They stare at one another, Sherlock's face serene, John's face scrunched in confusion.

Sherlock sighs, shaking his head. His brain seems to be biting at itself, already begging for a distraction, something, anything. He considers saying his farewells, slamming himself into his car, and huffing a few lines off the dashboard, but John is watching him. He's waiting for something. A response. “I suppose it was, in fact, my wrong-doing.” Sherlock says finally. “I... wasn't paying attention.”

“Too right. But I'm a forgiving person, if nothing else. So... it's strangely okay.” John replies. “However, I recommend looking at the road when you drive. Next person may not be so gentle. ”

Sherlock huffs a small laugh, one that comes from his gut. “Or quick, for that matter.” he adds.

“Next time, you'll be picking bits of human flesh off the grill.” John smirks.

“That would be a treat, wouldn't it?”

John stares, his mouth half cocked into a smile. “Would it?” he asks, his eyebrow lifting.

Sherlock narrows his eyes in amused suspicion. “The truth may surprise you.”

“Something tells me it wouldn't.”

Sherlock is a little thrown by John. He isn't sure what to make of him, not quite. There's something friendly about him, even at two in the morning, even in the middle of an intersection. He hasn't called the police, though he'd have every right to. He hasn't done much more arguing, even though he'd also be entitled to do so. He isn't sure why, but he swallows as he asks. “Fancy a cup of coffee, by chance? May need it. “ Sherlock almost instantly regrets the question, but he doesn't allow himself to show it.

John is hesitant. Sherlock is strangely charming. He's unsure of why he finds him to be so, but he does, and that makes him want to accept. But Sherlock nearly just hit him with a car. At a very quick speed, as it happens. So he wants to—logically--tell him to sod off. But he's intrigued, and he feels like if he doesn't take the opportunity right then, and tell Sherlock yes, that he may never get the opportunity again. “Ah... Is there anywhere open for coffee at this time? It's a bit late. Or early, depending.” he says instead. It gives him a small window, one that he can leap from if he needs to. Sherlock nods, “I know of one. Not too far from here.”

“No? Which direction?”

Sherlock gestures with his head, “North.”

“Bit out of the way for me. Flat's south.” He regrets the words the moment they slip from his mouth.

Sherlock's eyebrow quirks, and his features become supercilious. “A simple 'no' would've sufficed.” he says. He makes his way back to the drivers side of the car and flings the door open. John stares. “What?” he asks.

“If you're uninterested in a cup of coffee, you need not beat around the bush.” Sherlock goes on, sliding himself into the seat. He buckles his seat belt as John comes around to meet him. “But I-”

“There's also no need to save face.” Sherlock cuts him off, turning the key in the ignition. “It was merely a suggestion. Albeit, one I wouldn't normally have made, but you piqued my interest for a moment and I thought I'd give it a go.” His head turns to face John, who has his hands clasped on the door. “I hadn't meant to-”

“You did nothing wrong. You went with a gut impulse, one that told you that trusting a man who nearly ran you down moments ago was a bad idea.” Sherlock replies as he adjusts the volume of the music coming from the speakers. “You reacted as any other person would. And so, Mr. Watson, I apologize once again for nearly hitting you. Do, however, attempt to look both ways before crossing a road. And good luck with your exam in the morning, I fear you'll need it.” Sherlock says this quickly, his voice razor sharp and cold as ice.

It causes John to step back. He's unsure why he's hurt by a strangers words, but he is and he has to pull himself together to watch Sherlock reverse and turn back into the direction he was heading. There are no final exchanges, no backward glances between them, and John doesn't say a word as Sherlock and his car disappear into the English night.

 

 

John doesn't expect to still be thinking about Sherlock once he pushes the door of his flat open. Not in the way he is, anyway. He expects to recall being nearly flattened by him. He expects to think about the eerie way he could read John. He doesn't expect to think about the small, obviously rare smiles Sherlock gave him, or how light his eyes were, or how cold his voice became upon rejection. He doesn't expect to feel a heavy sadness in his chest at the thought, but he feels it and it makes him uncomfortable. His flat mate is parked in front of the telly, spread on the couch, eyes only half open.

“Oi.” he mutters from the couch. John looks down at him.

“Thought you could sneak in, eh? C'mon mate.”

“Ta Pete, but I've got an exam and I need sleep.” John replies.

Pete shakes his head. He's drunk, John suspects. “C'mon mate. Take a load off, have a beer.”

“I should really--”

“John, ain't no way I'm lettin' ya, so just come and sit.”

John sighs as he slips his bag off his shoulder. He wants some peace and quiet. He wants, despite his best wishes, to think of the strange man called Sherlock. But not in the way Pete is about to tear from him. He flops down on the dingy couch and grabs the freshly-opened bottle Pete hands him. Pete claps him on the back. “Studying all night, look at ya. You're one of them _good_ students.” He says.

“Because I care about the material? Heaven forbid.” John throws a side glance at him while putting the bottle to his lips.

“Did I miss anything exciting?” Pete asks sarcastically, flopping his back against the couch. John sighs, and his brain conjures up the vision of Sherlock. Something is still amiss, something vital to that moment is missing, but he can't pinpoint it. “Nearly got run over.” John says simply.

This peaks Pete's interest. “Fuck sake!”

John nods. “Yep, by some bloke in a Mercedes.”

“Ah, figures. Posh-o, then.”

John furrows his eyebrow. “A bit, I suppose.”

“Did you give him a talkin' to? I'd have kicked his arse had it been me.” Pete is shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. John laughs, inhaling deeply as he rests against the back of the couch as well. “Nah. He was alright.”

He notices when Pete turns to look at him. He does so slowly. “ _He was alright?_ Bloke nearly runs you down in the street and he's alright?” Pete shakes his head, scoffing. “Nah mate, that ain't alright. That's grounds for a proper doin' in, if you ask me.”

“Good thing I didn't then.” John mutters. He takes another sip of his beer. He knows he has no right to be upset that Pete is considering violence against Sherlock, but it doesn't settle well in his stomach. Something is upsetting and he doesn't understand it, but he thinks of Sherlock's sharp features and cold voice. “So then, what did happen?” Pete asks suddenly.

“Hmm?” John asks.

“If you didn't deck him, what happened?”

John sighs, settling the bottle between his legs. “Well... I started to shout a bit.”

“Too right.”

“Noticed he had a spliff.”

“Ah, he was high?” Pete shakes his head disapprovingly.

“Then he got out of the car and... well, I don't know what really happened then.”

Pete looks at him once again, but he doesn't return the gaze. “I asked him if he was going to apologize, and he sort of did. And then he told me to go away, because I needed sleep if I was gonna do alright on my exam.”

“He told you to get sleep for your exam?” Pete asks.

John nods. “Exact words were--” He can hear them in his head as he says them, “ _You'll need all the sleep you can get if you're to remember the difference between Keratoconjunctivitis and Keratoconjunctivitis sicca.”_

Pete looks perplexed. He is still staring at John, and now his eyebrows are furrowed and his chin is pulled inward. “Those words?”

“Those words exactly.”

“Do you know him?”

John shakes his head. “Never seen him in my life.”

“Then how'd he--”

“He just knew.” John says simply. “He knew my age, knew I was a med student, knew I was at Bart's, knew about the exam. He just looked at me and knew.” John is still just as perplexed, but he doesn't share the skeptical feeling that Pete is obviously harboring. He looks at Pete finally. “You sure you've never seen him, mate? Could be one of those weird-o stalker types.” Pete says. He sounds serious. John can't help the laugh that escapes him. It confuses Pete even further.

“No. He's not... he's not that.” John replies. He takes the bottle from between his thighs and takes another sip. He could be. John realizes this. But nothing about Sherlock read stalker. Not to him anyway. Then again, it was practically impossible to read Sherlock. Sherlock had the ability to read whoever he liked at any given moment. Apparently, it seemed, to John anyway, that the trick was not reversible. He sighs into his bottle, taking a long swig. “So then what.” Pete prompts once again.

John shrugs. “Nothing. Not really. A bit of a chit-chat. Told him my name--”

“Bet he's a stalker.”

“--He told me his.”

“Bet it's a weird-o name. What's his name?”

It _is_ a bit of a weird-o name. John notes this when he says it out loud. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Pete bursts into a fit of giggles. Once again, John feels himself getting strangely defensive over Sherlock. Sherlock, the man who he literally knew less than half an hour. The one who read him without even knowing his name. The one who offered coffee and the one who almost seemed _upset_ that John hadn't immediately said yes. “Sherlock Holmes?” Pete repeats, and John nods stiffly. “I think he gave you a fake name. Bit of a weird one too. Who would name a kid Sherlock? That's just child abuse.” Pete is going on, giggling into his beer bottle. John clears his throat, his lips pursing as he focuses on the screen. He doesn't like how defensive he's feeling. He hates that Pete is mocking Sherlock. Neither of these things seem to register properly.

“Did you at least bring round the coppers? Might have done him a favor, taught him a lesson.”

John shook his head. “Thought about it. Decided against it.”

“Wha-? Why would you _think_ about callin' the police and then decide against it?”

John swipes his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “He apologized. I'm not hurt. What's the point?”

“That a loony named _Sherlock_ tried to run you down?”

“He didn't try and run me down. It was an accident.”

“Should've been watchin' where he was going.”

“I wasn't looking either, Pete.” John says, his voice low.

“Yeah, but he's the one in the car. He should've been lookin' out for people like you.”

“It goes both ways. He should've looked, and I should've looked. We were both at fault.” John can hear the edge coming into his voice and he can't seem to control it. He hopes that Pete doesn't hear it, but he has a feeling he might have when he glances at him. John turns back toward the television, swallowing and taking another sip. “Point is... I don't know. It was weird, but it was alright.”

“Right.” Pete replies shortly.

“I survived. And maybe I'm better for it.”

“Could be.”

“So... I'm just going to go ahead and go to bed.” John says with finality. He sets his half-drunk beer on the coffee table and stands, grabbing up his bag. Pete doesn't say anything else, and John is both thankful and regretful of that. He knows that Pete is mulling over the words he used. He's thinking about the edge in his voice and wondering just _why_ John is getting uppity over some bloke called Sherlock Holmes. John can't answer that, so he leaves the room before Pete gets the gall to ask.

John spends the rest of his evening in bed. Though he fitfully attempts to sleep, he only gets half sleeps that don't quite rest him. When his alarm sounds, however, he has made a decision. If he comes across Sherlock Holmes again, he will invite _him_ for coffee. He has decided that he wants to know Sherlock Holmes, though for what reason, he hasn't exactly worked out.

He showers as normal, allowing the temperature to scald him just slightly. He dresses for the day and creeps around the kitchen, knowing Pete is sleeping on the couch. He makes himself a cup of tea, a strong cup, and leans against the counter while he drinks it. His brain is rehashing the terms he's learned. He remembers the difference between _Keratoconjunctivitis_ and _Keratoconjunctivitis sicca._ He remembers Sherlock explaining John. He remembers Sherlock saying he'd need rest.

Toast pops up from the toaster and he grabs it, buttering it quickly. He'll eat on the run. The sooner he takes the exam, the sooner his day ends. He glances at Pete before he leaves, ensuring that he hasn't roused him. Pete is sprawled out on the couch, leg hanging off, mouth wide and possibly drooling. John shuts the door behind him quietly and heads toward Bart's.

The air is brisk in the morning. It wakes up him properly, which he needs, as the lecture hall will surely be stuffy and warm. It takes him twenty minutes to walk, and within ten of arriving in the hospital, he's seated in the hall and awaiting the beginning of the exam. 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deductions are hard to write. Thank you for reading.

John is confident when he slips the exam papers onto the professors desk. He isn't the first to finish, which is good, because he gets nervous he's bogged it all up if he is. When he steps out in the courtyard, the sky has become gray, completely overcast. He prefers the feeling over the heat. It suits him. He makes his way across the courtyard, thankful for the end of the day. He doesn't work that night (two nights in a row! A real treat). He's vowed to go back to his flat and get some proper sleep. He slips out of the open archway, leading him onto the main road.

It takes him a moment to register the tall, dark-haired figure standing just outside.

Sherlock has an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He's fiddling in his pockets, patting them down, shoving his hands into them, until he retrieves a silver lighter. He's leaned against the long brick wall of Bart's and he's lighting his cigarette. He inhales, the cherry glowing red hot, then exhales smoothly. He turns his head, blowing smoke away from the archway, and John is perplexed and thankful to see him. “Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?” he says. 

Sherlock turns to look at him. He gives a small, rueful smile of acknowledgment. “John Watson.” he replies, tapping on his cigarette away from John. 

“Are you... in this area often?” John asks. He's looking over Sherlock. He doesn't look much different in the daylight. Sharper, more angular. He can see just how sharp his cheeks are and just how light his eyes are. He can see a lot of detail he hadn't seen before. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “No, not frequently. Not recently. I do know the city well, though.” he says.

“So... what are you doing here, then?”

Sherlock sticks his cigarette back between his lips and starts fishing into his pockets once again. “I have something... you may need.” he mumbles, balancing the cigarette to the side of his mouth. He plucks it from his lips, holding it between two fingers, and finally grabs out a card. He hands it to John, who is baffled by it. It's his Bart's identification. He peers at Sherlock. 

Sherlock chuckles.

“I noticed it on the road while I was inspecting my car last night.” he says silkily. 

“And you didn't hand it back then?”

“I was about to.”

Sherlock is lying.

It's obvious, he thinks, blatantly obvious that he's lying to John. He is sure that anyone with half a brain can see the tension in his face, can see the small ripple of uncertainty behind his eyes. It's an act he's practiced masking many times before, but he slips and he knows he does. So he's certain that John will out him at any moment. Sherlock didn't simply  _find_ John's identification card lying on the street. No, he noticed it in John's bag, carelessly shoved into a side pocket, ready to fall to the pavement. John hadn't noticed the sly slip of the hand as Sherlock played angry. 

He knew John wouldn't go for coffee. John was a medical student. Therefore, he valued logic and fact. Logic and fact dictated that driving off into the night with a madman was irresponsible, so he didn't.  _Simple._ Should've said something about the type of person John was, should've allowed Sherlock's interest in him to wane, but there he was. Standing outside of Bart's the next morning, the cigarettes steadying him until later, waiting for John Watson. 

He'd need an excuse, of course, to be hanging about, waiting for John.

Therefore, slip of the wrist, pocketing of a slender card, promise of a second meeting.

_Easy._

John is unaware that Sherlock is lying. He smiles, grabbing out his wallet and shoving the card between the few notes he has. “Didn't even notice it had gone missing.” he says, sliding the wallet back into his back pocket. Sherlock finishes off his cigarette, dropping it to the ground, smashing it with the toe of his shoe. John has vowed that—if he had the opportunity—he would ask Sherlock to go for coffee. He's nervous as he watches him, but he manages to spit it out, “Coffee?” he asks.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow minutely. He hadn't expected that. Why hadn't he expected that? Maybe he should've. He swallows quietly, staring at John. John is attempting to right the wrong of the previous night. The wrong that Sherlock was amending at that moment. He understood John's reasoning. “You don't...  _have_ to--” he begins, but John stops him with a single lift of his hand.

Sherlock doesn't normally respond to such things, but with John, for some reason, he quiets.

“I know I don't have to.” he says simply, settling his hand against his side. “I'd like to.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asks this before his brain gives him time to consider it.

John shrugs. “Why not?”

Sherlock can think of many reasons  _why not_ , but he bites his tongue because he does—for some reason—want to have coffee with John. When he looks at John, he sees kindness. Not a sappy type, not one that would make him weak, but … compassion. He likes it, despite his own feelings towards it, likes it in John. He likes that John hasn't told him to fuck off or called him a freak. He wonders how long it'll last.  _Not long. He'll tire quickly of the observations. He'll think I'm being cruel, unjust. I will be, sometimes. Mostly._

“You don't have to say yes.” John says. “I just thought, maybe... I don't know.” He's becoming self-conscious. He's doubting himself. His shoulders are slumping, his face is tensing, his hands are attempting to figure out what they want to do with themselves. Sherlock can see his confidence slowly slipping away and he knows it's his fault, and though he normally wouldn't care, he does. And it jolts him, just a little, as he says, “Coffee, then.”

John is surprised. Rightfully so. Sherlock is too. “Right. Well, erm. I know a place a few blocks from here. Bout ten minute walk.” he says, clearing his throat and looking back behind him. “They do a damn good cup, if you ask me.”

“Only way to find out is with first-hand experience.” Sherlock says. He gestures with a long, sweeping motion of his arm. He has, of course, already mapped out (mentally) the location of each coffee shop within a ten minute walking radius. From the direction in which John's eyes had traveled, it's narrowed down to two. His brain rakes through the Uni papers, a back catalog in his head of useless drivel really ( _Another mental cleaning due.)_ until it stops on the terribly mediocre “about-town” reviews. Ah, yes. He knows exactly which John will lead him to. 

He doesn't mention that fact to John.

  


  


The coffee shop is busy with student traffic. 

Sherlock is nearly regretting his decision as he accompanies John to a recently-vacated table. It's just beside the large, picture window in the front of the shop, and just beside a group of girls Sherlock recognizes from school. He chooses to sit with his back toward them, and John takes the seat opposite. His hands are wrapped around his cup. He's staring into it. “So.” he says finally.

“So.” Sherlock replies.

An awkward silence falls over them. John sips his coffee quietly, pressing his lips together as he swallows. “Mmm. Good cup.” he mentions. 

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds affirmative.

_Well, this is going swimmingly._ John thinks bitterly. He's at a loss for words. He hadn't actually expected to see Sherlock, hadn't expected to actually ask him around for coffee. More than that, he hadn't actually expected Sherlock to agree. All of that thought, and semi-serious planning, had only taken him about as far as getting there. The conversation lulls.

“You know,” he says, and he looks at his coffee. “I wasn't actually expecting to see you again.” It sort of tumbles out of his mouth, a thought that crosses his mind and somehow slips from his lips. He clenches his jaw. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow momentarily. “No?”

“No. Thought... thought after last night, you know.”

“Know what?”

John takes a deep breath. “Well, you seemed a bit...  _peeved_ , I suppose.”

Sherlock doesn't reply.

“I mean, in all fairness, you hadn't even let me finish my thought.” John continues. His brain is saying something about boundaries, but it's as though his mouth is unfamiliar with the term. “I was just thinking it through. I thought... well, you know. I mean, I figured you'd have told me that you could just give me a lift, or something.” he confesses. It sounds awkward and bulky coming from his mouth, like a plea for attention, and it doesn't settle right. He shifts in his chair, re-adjusting his hands around his cup. 

“Though why I was even considering it, I don't know.” he says with a laugh. “Coffee with the bloke who nearly ran me down?” He shakes his head at himself. Sherlock hasn't said a word. John is wondering just when Sherlock is going to tell him to sod off, but he continues on. “But I did want to. Have coffee, with you, I mean. It's funny I should see you today, because I'd told myself... I'd said 'Alright. You see him again, you ask him 'round for coffee or something. Stop being such a tit.' And then there you were...” he's laughing at himself. He looks up to Sherlock, and notices that his eyes are narrowed suspiciously. 

“You planned to... ask me round?” Sherlock asks after a moment of silence. John looks quizzically at him. And then it strikes him.

Oh.  _Oh._

“No! No, not like that.” he says quickly. “Not like... like a  _date_ or anything like that. “ He's laughing nervously, but Sherlock is still giving him that look. A realization kicks him in the head, and he opens his mouth to begin speaking. “Oh. Oh, no. Not that anything is  _wrong_ with that. I mean, you know, it's just that I'm not...” he stops. “It's not  _my..._ ” he trails off, staring into his mug.

They're silent once again. John clears his throat, swallowing quietly. “Well then.” he says.

Sherlock sips his coffee. He's staring plainly at John. John can feel his eyes on him like lasers. “So, how do you do that thing?” he asks suddenly. He's desperate to make Sherlock speak, to pry some of the attention off of his reddening face. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “What thing?” he asks.

“That thing. You know.” John replies.

“I don't.”

“That thing where you look at someone and tell their whole life story.” 

Sherlock's lips twitch upward into a semi-smile. He gives a halfhearted laugh and shakes his head slowly. “That  _thing,_ as though it's some sort of magic trick.” he mutters. John's eyebrows furrow, and he wonders for a moment if he's offended Sherlock again. But Sherlock is still smiling. “It's not a  _trick_ , by the way. “ Sherlock adds.

“I didn't... think it was.” John mumbles.

“I like to think of it as more a science.” Sherlock says offhandedly, glancing around the room.

“A science?”

“Yes.” 

John quirks an eyebrow and settles back in his chair. He looks expectantly at Sherlock, who simply stares back. “Well, go on. I was hoping for an explanation.” John says with a gesture of his hands. It tells Sherlock he has the conversational 'floor'. Sherlock leans back in his chair as well. “I've already told you how I do it.” he replies after a moment. John's eyes narrow in confusion. Sherlock shrugs. “It's a matter of observation. I pay attention to detail.” 

“I  _observe_ things all the time. I can't tell what type of exam they've got the next day.” 

Sherlock smirks at this and leans forward. “You've mistaken the vocabulary.” he says. His hands are folded over one another on the table, and his eyes are glittering. “You  _see_ things. You look with your eyes and it hardly makes its way past a fleeting glance.” 

“Do you not see with your eyes?”

“I do more than simply  _see._ ” Sherlock retorts. “I pay attention to detail. I notice  _every_ bit of everything. And I digest it.” His lips have curled into a mischievous smile. The look on Sherlock's face seems to draws John closer, where he's mimicking Sherlock's lean against the table. “For every detail I observe, there are a slew of possibilities that correlate properly. It's a matter of connecting the details and formulating a deduction.”

“Deduction?”

“Everything I do is based on deductive reasoning.” Sherlock leans back. 

John does too. “So... you guess?” he asks quizzically.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Deductive reasoning isn't  _guessing_ . It's taking logic and previous knowledge and formulating an idea based on the facts presented.” he explains, crossing his arms.

John's eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Does that mean anyone could do it then?”

“In theory.” Sherlock says, grabbing up his mug and taking a sip. 

“But not everyone does.”

“Not in the format that I do, no.” Sherlock says simply. “People notice things. They never take the time to understand what the things they've noticed mean.” 

“How can anyone know what every little detail means, though?”

Sherlock smiles. “And therein lies the reason that most people don't do what I do.”

John's eyes are still squinted. He glances around the room, checking each person. “And you can literally do this with  _any_ person?” he asks as he looks back to Sherlock. It's unbelievable, but he's forced to believe it as Sherlock smirks. “Go on. I can see now that you're looking to test me. You'd like to pick a person from this room and have me make deductions about them. Please, take your pick.” he says, making a sweeping motion across the room. He is confident, John can see this. He crosses his arm. “Alright. “ he says. He turns in his seat, nodding. “Yeah, alright. Any person?”

“Pick one.”

John looks around once more. His eyes are drawn to the woman walking through the door. He leans in close and gestures his head. “Alright. Her. In the blue top.” he says. He stares for a moment longer before looking back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock is giving John a knowing look. He looks the woman over quickly. John watches Sherlock's eyes darting over her for what seems like no more than thirty seconds before he turns back to John. “She's in her early thirties. Works as personal assistant, someone in the media,” he begins to babble. John glances at the woman once again. Sherlock pauses for a moment, watching , then continues. “She's not from around here. And by here, I do mean the  _country._ She can be found at the gym or in a shop more than with her husband.” he pauses, smirking. “Though I'm sure if you were  _interested_ enough, she'd give you a go.”

John's jaw is hanging slack. He is staring at Sherlock. “Did you just make all that up?” he asks after a moment. Sherlock scoffs, a half-smile on his lips. He leans in closer, gesturing for John to follow suit. He's practically against John's ear. “She looks young—she visits salons frequently, but they can't cover the amount of sun damage done to her skin. The amount of aging isn't severe, but it's enough to become noticeable. Therefore, just out of her twenties. I'd venture to say thirty-one.” he explains in a hushed murmur. “Her attire... not quite designer labels, but near enough to assume that she's often seen. She needs to look both professional and fashionable, though she lacks the financial ability to splurge on Versace. So what type of work requires you to be seen often? Media. She needs to be in her best form because she's often the first person seen. ”

“How do you know she's not British?” John murmurs.

“Her wallet. Well, rather, her license. Comes from California. And she's tan. London doesn't get the type of sun to allow her to tan properly. Had it been a false tan, she'd be orange. With a job as a personal assistant to someone in the media, she obviously travels.”

“And the other bits?”

“The cards in her wallet are arranged based on which she uses most often.” he says quietly. “Top one is obviously her credit card, platinum is looks to be, and right beneath that is gold. Means she shops frequently. You don't get those types of cards for spending on a bit of petrol.”

“How can you tell what cards she's got in her wallet?”

“They're on display. A woman's wallets is shaped differently than a man's. They're larger, have a few more compartments, fold out differently. Her cards are right down the center of the wallet, John. Do pay attention.”

“I can't even see her wallet.”

“Well, of course not, she's put it away now. But—and thank you for this John—the vantage point was perfect.”

“Alright. Go on.”

“Right beneath her credit cards is a gym membership card. She's more concerned with her personal appearance than the appearance of her marriage, Husband probably doesn't notice—thinks he's found himself a trophy wife.“

“And the husband thing?”

“Well, the wedding band on her finger makes it pretty obvious, I'd have thought...”

“No, I meant... I meant the bit where you said...”

“That she'd give you a shag?” Sherlock asks. John turns and he's face to face with Sherlock. It causes his stomach to do a nervous flip. He doesn't understand why. “State of her jewelry. She keeps most of her jewelry clean enough to glitter, look at it. You notice her necklace and her earrings before you notice that sad piece of tin on her finger. If she cared about the appearance of her marriage, she'd keep her rings just as immaculate. Chances are, she slips it off quite frequently. For various activities, I'm sure.”

John shakes his head. “There's no way any of that's true.”

Sherlock smirks. He's whispering once again, “Looks like she's found herself a target. Watch her hands, John. She's mastered the art of appearing single.” 

Sure enough, John watches as the woman casually slips her hand into her pocket. When she brings her hand out once again—to press flirtatiously against a younger man's shoulder—the rings are gone. John can't help the shocked dropping of his jaw. He turns to look back at Sherlock, and Sherlock is smirking. 

“Bloody hell.” John says breathlessly, glancing quickly toward the woman before leaning back into his chair. His eyes draw themselves back to Sherlock. He's leaned back into his chair once again, sipping at his coffee. “Literally anyone?” John asks.

“I'm confident in my abilities, yes.”

“Amazing. Absolutely amazing.” 

Sherlock swallows quietly, attempting to hide his obvious affection toward John's flattery. He presses his lips together, and John is laughing quietly. “Alright. Alright. Do that guy there.”

“Which one? The closeted homosexual who is currently with his beard or the sexually curious man he's flirting with?”

John laughs again. “Both.”

  


  


  


Nearly three hours later, they find themselves finally stepping back out into the London foot-traffic. 

“So... I never asked.” Sherlock says, drawing a pack of cigarettes from within his coat. “How'd your exam go?”

John is coming down from a giggle that has seemingly injured his stomach. He shrugs, still smiling. “Ah, don't think I did too bad. I wasn't the first done at any rate.” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks to Sherlock and watches as he takes the first drag of his cigarette. He won't admit to himself that he likes the way it looks, the way Sherlock's hands move, the way his lips draw around the filter. He makes it look elegant, classy even. Like old Hollywood. Sherlock exhales and turns to look to John. “You know, there's no correlation between your knowledge of the material and how quickly you've completed an assignment.”

“Realistically, yeah. I know that. But I always feel like if I'm the first one done, then I've managed to bog it up somewhere.”

“Were you confident of your answers?”

“As confident as I was gonna get.”

“Then whether you'd finished first or last wouldn't have changed the outcome.”

“Then I still could've gone tits-up on it.”

Sherlock shrugs, and John can't help but laugh to himself. He's not sure where they're going, but he finds that he's uncaring of such facts. He finds himself strangely comfortable with Sherlock Holmes, as though he's known him for years, as though he was  _supposed_ to know him for years. “You never did tell me where you go to Uni.” John mentions.

“Boring.”

“Is it?”

“Dreadfully so.” 

“Then why go?”

Sherlock gives him a small smile, and John understands. “Oh, you don't.”

“I am enrolled in certain classes. Most of which I rarely attend. It's mostly for the laboratory usage.”

“How do you--”

“My reputation precedes me.” He cuts in, before John can finish his sentence. “I've reached an understanding with most of my professors. I come in only to take exams. And an occasional presentation.”

“What about... homework and the like?”

“It's an unorthodox understanding we've reached.” he replies, and says nothing more.

John scoffs. “I'd take that arrangement any day.”

Sherlock makes something like an affirmative noise, then glances down to the watch on his wrist. “Ah, speaking of which.” he says, “I have a meeting to attend.” 

John tries to hide the flush of disappointment that flickers over his face, but Sherlock catches it. Neither mention it. “Oh, right. Of course. It's been a few hours, hasn't it?” John says nonchalantly. He doesn't like the sudden hollowed feeling he gets in his chest. He hasn't even noticed that Sherlock has, in fact, led them back to his car. “Right.” John says. “Well. Thanks for bringing my ID back. May have been a bit hard to get into some of the labs without it.”

“Thought it might be needed.” Sherlock replies as he opens the door.

“Glad we got to do coffee after all.” John says before he can stop to think about it.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, then nods. “It was quite... enjoyable.” he says.

_Three hours spent in that coffee shop, I can't imagine it wouldn't have been._ John thinks, but he doesn't allow that thought to slip through the vocal crack. Instead he clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe we should... I don't know, do it again sometime?” he asks as coolly as he can manage.

Sherlock eyes him.

“Not... not in that way.” John adds quickly. Sherlock's eyes narrow suspiciously. “Not that anything is  _wrong_ with that way but, I mean--” He's vaguely attempting to defend himself when Sherlock cuts him off with the raising of a hand. “How about dinner, tomorrow night?” Sherlock asks.

“Erm...”

“Purely platonic, I assure you.” 

“Oh, well. I'm not judgi--”

“That settles it, then. Here,” Sherlock says, reaching into the glove compartment and snatching out a stray bit of a paper and a pen. He scribbles on it quickly, then hands it to John. It's a phone number. John looks back to Sherlock. “Mobile number. Drop us a line later, we'll discuss details then. However, I really must dash.” he says quickly, turning over the ignition and bringing the car to life. John nods. “Right.”

“Unless you'd prefer--”

“No, no. This is... this is fine.” John interrupts.

Sherlock flashes him a smile. “Good. Then we'll chat later.” 

“Certainly.”

He doesn't say anything else. Sherlock glances quickly into the rear view mirror and over his shoulder before flipping the blinker on and pulling out of his spot. John watches him merge into the street traffic, and continues watching until Sherlock is completely out of sight.


	3. Three

John paces in his room.

He doesn't understand. Not a single bit. He's trying to, but nothing he seems to be thinking has any real reasoning behind it. He's  _nervous._ That much he gets. But to be nervous over calling someone? He never usually gets nervous. He finds he's being ridiculous. “Stop it. Just... just call.” he tells himself. He snatches up the paper and phone, then drops down onto his bed and stares at the dial pad. 

He types in the number.

His finger hovers over the 'talk' button.

And then he hits 'end' once again.

He flops backward onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. Something about this entire scenario isn't right. The only time he recalled  _ever_ being nervous over a phone call was when he was... no, he wasn't going to think about that. It wasn't possible, not even slightly.

He curls himself back up into a sitting position once again. He taps the numbers into the dial pad once again. His finger hovers over the 'talk' button once again. And then he hears a tap on the door. It causes him to jump and practically fling the phone across the room just as Pete opens the door. “Oi, headin' to the pub. Wanna grab a pint?” Pete asks.

John looks surprised. He can feel all of the muscles in his face tense. Pete furrows his eyebrows, “Alright, mate?” he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” John replies, but his voice is slightly higher than he'd intends. He swallows.

Pete quirks a curious eyebrow at him. “You're sure?”

“Yeah. I'm... I'm perfectly alright. I think I'll skip the pub for tonight. Work in the morning.” He says. He tries to relax his face, look casual, but Pete is sober and perceptive. “Right.” Pete replies. He quirks an eyebrow, looking over John quickly. “Well, if you change your mind...”

“Right. At the pub. Ta, mate.”

Pete shuts the door without another word. John exhales noisily and flops back into his bed once again. He picks up the phone. “Stop. It's a phone call to a mate. There's nothing to be nervous about. You're being ridiculous.” he tells himself. He doesn't need the paper anymore, has accidentally memorized each number in the sequence. He punches in the numbers and his finger hovers once more over the talk button and—finally--he presses down on it.

He presses the phone to his ear. It begins ringing. “It's nothing. Just a call.” John is whispering to himself, although his heart is racing in his chest and his hand is shaking just slightly. He swallows as he hears the familiar click of a pick-up on the other line. “So what time were you thinking?” the voice on the other end asks.

John furrows his eyebrows. “Hello?”

“Yes, John. I know it's you. Let's discuss times.”

John can't help but laugh. “How could you possibly--”

“You're the only person I've asked to call, as well as the only person whose phone number I don't already have memorized.”

“Right.”

“Time?”

John bites his bottom lip. He's feeling a funny swelling in his chest, a happy bubble of something he's not ready to admit to. He sighs. “Well, I don't know. I work until six.” he replies. His body is beginning to relax. It's confusing.

“Nine o'clock then?”

“That's a bit late.”

“Is it?”

John considers it. Later dinners tend to feel a bit more...  _romantic._ The forefront of his mind tells him that the answer is clearly yes, nine o'clock is much too late for a couple of friends to go to dinner. It's when places begin to set out their candles and await couples to stroll in. And yet, some little voice in the back of his mind is saying “... _well, why not?”_

“I suppose not. If it's what you prefer.” John hears himself replying.

“How do you feel about Moroccan? I know of a decent place not too far from your area.”

“My area? How do you know my--”

Sherlock sighs, and John can't help but laugh. “You were  _walking_ back to your flat the night before. If you'd have lived farther, you'd have had your own form of transportation. Therefore, your flat can't be more than, I'd say, twenty minutes or so from Bart's.” he explains in rapid-fire. John shakes his head. “Fifteen, actually.” he replies simply.

“Irrelevant. I thought perhaps we'd meet outside that coffee shop.”

“Erm... yeah. Yeah, sounds good.”

“So then, nine o'clock outside the coffee shop.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

“Fantastic. I'll see you then.”

“Right.”

He doesn't get the opportunity to say much more as he listens to the definitive click on the other line. He sets his phone down upon the bed and folds his arms beneath his head. He doesn't quite know what he's feeling, or he's not quite ready to put a detailed label on it, but he smiles and tells himself it's happiness.

  
  


John checks his watch.

He's early. He didn't mean to be early. But he'd already showered and shaved and dressed and re-dressed, done homework, tidied his room... there wasn't much more he could've done to stall for time. So he'd headed out, and there he was, standing in front of the closed coffee shop, glancing to the concrete below his feet as people shuffled past.

He checks his watch again. He's still got 3 minutes.

John exhales, then swallows. He's nervous again. He feels it twirling around in his gut and clenching hold of his lungs. He shouldn't be, he knows Sherlock a little better this time around, but it doesn't make him any more confident.

Another check of the time. One minute left.

At exactly nine o'clock, he sees Sherlock round the corner. He's walking quickly, striding toward John. “Been standing here long?” he asks as he approaches John. He doesn't tell Sherlock the truth, “Nah. Just a minute or two.”  _Or twenty._

“Shall we?” Sherlock asks, gesturing with his arms. 

Sherlock is walking quickly. His legs are long and they seem to encompass at least two of John's steps. John has to jog to catch him up properly. “Is there a rush?” John asks, keeping his pace quick. Sherlock's head snaps in John's direction. “Rush? No. Why?”

“You're practically running.” John replies.

Sherlock stops mid-step and looks down to his feet. John stops with him. Sherlock looks confused for a moment, then he nods. “So I am.”

“Are you alr-”

“I'm perfectly fine, John. In fact, I'm  _splendid.”_ Sherlock exclaims before taking a striding step. 

They walk (well, Sherlock walks. John canters somewhere between a brisk walk and a slow jog) for only a few minutes before Sherlock turns them into a small, dimmed restaurant. John can't pronounce the name of it—he was never very good with foreign languages—but it smells nice upon entering and he realizes quite suddenly just how hungry he is.

The host takes them to a table near the back and sets out two menus in each place. He also lights the candle that sits in the middle of the table. John thinks of protesting, of mentioning how they aren't dating, this isn't supposed to be romantic, how he's straight. But before he can muster up the words, the host is walking away.

“Well then.” John says as he sits. He grabs up his menu and scans it quickly before looking up at Sherlock. He's already flipping the menu down onto the table and searching the room. John can feel Sherlock's leg twitching beneath the table. “So... how'd your meeting yesterday go?” he asks, looking back to the selection

“Hm? Oh. That. Right, just an obligatory assignment pick up. The professor's a bit a of a prat but he tends to make our obligatory meetings short, so I respect him for it. Though, admittedly, if my wife were a serial adulterer I would consider being a bit of a prat as well, sentiment does that to people, you see. Makes them bitter, cold. ” The words tumble from Sherlock's mouth in a string that John can barely comprehend. He furrows his eyebrows. “Right.”

The menu is in French. John doesn't realize this until he's properly focused his attention to the words before him, and he can only understand one in every fifty or so. “Erm.”

“The menu. Foreign language. You aren't familiar with French, are you? Of course you aren't.” Sherlock gives a sharp laugh. “Take your pick of beef, lamb or chicken. Unless you're a vegetarian, but clearly you're not. In any case, I'd strongly recommend the  _Couscous Chaoui._ Chicken.” It's all coming out so quickly that John has no immediate response. His eyebrows are still pulled down in concern. He nods and shuts the menu. “Take your word for it.” he says simply.

“Best decision you could possibly make.”

“And what are you having?”

“ _Galettes des Feuilles des Briks._ ” Sherlock replies without hesitation or stammer.

John makes to look at the menu once again, to look over Sherlock's choice, but he's quickly reminded that none of it makes sense to him. “How in the hell do they get customers when the entire menu's in French?” he mumbles. “S'not like everyone knows French...”

“Look around you, John. It's not exactly a  _popular establishment._ Though the food is, I'll readily admit, delicious.”

John hasn't noticed that many tables are, in fact, empty. The more he looks around the room, in fact, the more intimate the restaurant seems to become. He swallows and flips down his menu once again, looking across to Sherlock. His eyes are darting around the room manically, his leg is still bouncing beneath the table, and—John notices this last—he is clenching and stretching his hand. “So... you speak French then?” he asks, quickly averting his gaze from Sherlock's fingers.

_“Oui, un peu. Quand j'étais enfant, j'ai souvent été obligé d'aller en France, j'ai de la famille là bas. J'ai appris la langue par nécessité. À certains moments cela s'est avéré utile._ ” Sherlock says offhandedly. John blinks in reply. Sherlock simply smirks.

“Right.” John says finally. When the waiter appears, he allows Sherlock to order for both of them. The longer he sits in his seat quietly, the more frequently the waiter shoots him glances, most often accompanied with a knowing smirk. John finds he can't do much more then smile awkwardly and fiddle with his fork.

Sherlock excuses himself twice before the food even arrives. When it does finally arrive on their table, it smells delightful, and John is not apprehensive as he begins. Sherlock, however, fails to touch his stew. Sherlock's fingers are tapping against the table, his leg is still bouncing. “Aren't you going to... eat?” John asks, his eyes slowly making their way to Sherlock's face. He's being watched, he realizes. Sherlock's eyes are solely focused on him, narrowed in observation, lips drawn into a semi-smile. John's stomach tenses. His jaw clenches. He swallows more audibly than he'd hoped. His heart is thumping loudly against his ribs, so loud he's sure that Sherlock is drumming the beat of it against the table. They stare at each other for a long moment before Sherlock breaks the gaze. He doesn't answer John's question.

“So... you know, I don't know anything about you.” John says finally. He's regained control of his heart and lungs and stomach.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks.

“You don't talk about yourself a lot.” John replies.

“No?”

John laughs. “Well, no. I know your name. I know you're in Uni. I know you drive a luxury car and that you dabble in recreational drugs.” he murmurs. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “And I'm starting to understand that keeping secrets from you is useless.” John continues.

“Recreational drugs...” Sherlock says.

John nods. “You picked up that spliff from the floor of your car. We both know it wasn't a cigarette. The ones you smoke are prepackaged.” he explains. He stares at Sherlock, and something unfamiliar flickers over the man's face before it settles back into nonchalance. He doesn't say anything. “So, tell me more about yourself.” John prompts.

“What would you like to know?” Sherlock asks.

John shrugs. “I don't know. Anything?”

“You'll have to be more specific.”

“Whatever comes to your head first. What's something I should know about you?”

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment. His eyes seem to do a lap around the restaurant. “I can't think of a single thing any one person should know of me. Not that I haven't already divulged.” He states finally. John's eyebrows furrow. “I don't even know how old you are.” he states.

“Twenty-one. Next?”

“You won't tell me what University you're attending?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Alright. What do you do for fun?”

“Experiment.”

John cocks an eyebrow. “Experiment?”

“Experiment.”

John allows a small huff of a laugh to escape his lips. “Fine then. Do you work?”

“In a way.”

“Have you got a girlfriend?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, obviously ready to answer whichever question John throws at him, but stops. John suppresses a smirk. He caught him off-guard. Sherlock shuts his mouth and stares at John. “Girlfriend. Ah, no. Not really my... area.” he replies instead. John quirks an eyebrow. The two men make eye-contact. It's held for a moment before John nods. “Boyfriend, then?” he asks. He says this much cooler than he feels it. The question has been rolling around in his mind since coffee, but the gall to ask hasn't been acquired until that moment. Sherlock stares. “There isn't anything wrong with that.” John adds. He's trying to keep his voice confident.

“I know.” Sherlock replies hotly.

“So then you do?”

“No.”

“Right. Okay.”

John goes back to eating silently for a moment. The food is exquisite. He'd only ever had couscous once before, and it hadn't exactly been his idea of  _spectacular,_ but the one before him is close to beautiful. Sherlock still hasn't touched his food. Sherlock is still twitchy and anxious. “Are you sure you're alright?” he asks finally. It's something that he's been wondering since the moment Sherlock had appeared around the corner.

“Perfect.”

“You don't seem perfect.”

“No?”

“No. You seem... manic.”

“Does that worry you?”

John isn't sure. After all, he doesn't know Sherlock. Not very well. Not at all, if he's being honest. He's only just learned Sherlock is younger than he. For all he knows, manic could be Sherlock's normal persona. “I'm not sure. Are you usually manic?” he asks after a hesitation.

“I suppose it depends on your definition of manic. In terms of dictionary definitions, no. I can't say I'm generally manic. Well, I lie. On occasion. I've been known to be manic. When bored. When in need of a distraction. On occasion, the distraction I choose has made me manic. I suppose tonight's one of those nights.” Sherlock replies. His words are moving quickly once again, stringing together, practically just a buzz where a sentence should be. John blinks, because words fail him. “Right.” he says.

“I make you uncomfortable.” Sherlock states.

John stares. “Why would you--”

“You've been fidgeting and making small talk all evening. You've inquired about the state of my being several times. It's obvious.”

“You don't make me uncomfortable.” John affirms.

“You wouldn't be the first--”

“You don't. Make me. Uncomfortable.” John reaffirms, punctuating his words. He stares hard at Sherlock. It is the most confident he's truly felt since the nights began. He feels far from uncomfortable. In fact, spending time with Sherlock feels familiar. It was a strange feeling at first, the comfort, one he couldn't wrap his head around. And though he still can't manage to figure out the  _why,_ he's accepted it. 

Sherlock doesn't reply. He looks more or less baffled. John finds himself enjoying Sherlock's stunned silences. He hopes to enjoy many more.

*

  
  


_Unexpected._

Yes, that's the word he's thinking of. The others that came to his mind—confusing, unwarranted, unwanted, exciting, insane—they didn't seem to all encompass the feeling, the thrill, the definite confusion. Unexpected seems to fit in each blank space provided in his mind.

It is unexpected that he invites Sherlock to his flat, for a bit of telly.

It is unexpected that Sherlock accepts his invitation.

It is unexpected that Pete is gone for the night.

It is unexpected that he find himself pressed to his closed bedroom door, wrists pinned above his head and covered with Sherlock's fingers.

He meant it innocently enough, he thinks. He was sure that his invitation was platonic. They'd ended up loosening up, laughing more, drinking more. Not excessively, mind, but enough that he'd prefer Sherlock not drive until slightly more sober. Sherlock hadn't even protested, had accepted with little hesitation. Everything had  _seemed_ friendly enough.

“Mind the mess. My flat mate, Pete... he's a bit of a pig.” John says as he reaches the door of his flat. He wonders if Pete is sprawled drunkenly on the couch. His ears perk, sending themselves onto high alert, listening to the innards of the flat. The television isn't on. There aren't any voices. He swings the door open and everything is dark. “Ah. He's not in.” he says.

“Pity.” Sherlock replies dryly, and John grins.

He flips on a light and the place is, as usual, in a state. He blushes as he scurries about, snatching up beer bottles and trash. “Ah, yeah. Sorry, Pete. He's... yeah.” he says quickly, shoving things into the bin, chucking plates into the sink, attempting halfheartedly to make it more presentable. He imagines that Sherlock's flat is sparkling clean, almost obsessively. He swallows, smiling sheepishly as he watches Sherlock. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Two sugars, please.”

Sherlock moves about the sitting room with his hands grasped behind his back. He's inspecting the couch, the floor, the table, the ceiling, the telly, everywhere. John is certain that a single spot hasn't gone unnoticed. He feels himself blush as he starts the kettle and prepares two mugs. “Here, let me give you the grand tour.” John says finally. Sherlock turns to him with a smile. John keeps his flutter of  _whatever-that-was_ in check. “This is, of course, the front room. Telly and the like.” he gestures over the room with both arms as he steps back into the room.

“Of course.”

“And that's the kitchen. It's in a bit of a tip right now, but that's more or less because I'm either working or in class, and Pete's a lazy sod.”

“Ah, the life of bachelors.”

He gestures for Sherlock to follow him, and the tall man does. He points to each door separately as they make their way down the hall. “This ones the toilet. That's Pete's room. Don't think I've been in there in at least three months. Somethings probably dead in there.” he says with a laugh. Sherlock smiles. He opens the door to his room and gestures grandly. “And, of course, the tidiest room in the flat. My room.” He steps over the threshold. He's glad he's made his bed up. It gives his slightly messy room a cleaner feeling.

“I mean, I know it's not the best looking room in the world.” he says to Sherlock's silence. “I haven't gotten round to putting up anything. Bit lazy.” he confesses. “But it's mine.”

He turns on his heel to face Sherlock.

He's met with hands, grasping aggressively at his shirt. He's being spun around. He's being backed into his door, shutting it with a slam. And then there are lips over his. They are crushing against his mouth and they're warm and his mind isn't quite sure how he's supposed to respond, but his body is already working way ahead of him and kissing back. Sherlock tastes of wine, sweet and bitter and intoxicating. His body is pressed from chest to hips against John's. Somewhere in the back of John's head, there is a small amount of protest, but the voice is something like a whisper and John is ignoring it.

Sherlock's fingers wrap around Johns wrists, forcing them up and over Johns head. He pins them there, pressing his body harder into Johns.

John's brain is going fuzzy, just a little. He's losing himself in the sensations, in Sherlock's taste and his breath and the warmth of his body. He finds himself sustaining quiet moans as Sherlock's teeth take his lips with gentle nibbles. Their tongues are meeting, sliding over one another, slow and seductive and it's causing John's knees to feel just slightly weaker. His heart is racing. With how close Sherlock is pressed to him, he's certain he can feel it. If he does, he never mentions it.

John frees his hands from Sherlock's grasp and grabs his waist. He pulls him, though there's no space between them to move, closer still. He is smashing Sherlock against his body. He's surprised at the small gasp that seems to escape Sherlock as their hips crush against one another. Every nerve seems to be standing at attention, every touch causing sudden, uncontrollable urges John has never experienced with a man.

The whisper in John's head is a now quiet murmur. He's still ignoring it.

Sherlock is the one who seems to pry them from the door. He wraps his arms around John, one around his waist, one around his neck. John feels his own arms squeeze tight around Sherlock's waist, allowing him to walk them to wherever it is that he's leading. He feels the edge of his bed hit the back of his knees and he collapses, Sherlock's weight causing a small sigh to escape him as he falls with him.

That voice, it's growing a little louder now. It's a normal conversation voice, reminding him, “Hey, this is Sherlock. A man. This is a man you're kissing. Remember?” He still manages to ignore it, though it begins to nag him.

Sherlock's thigh presses between his. It's pushing and stroking the erection he's accidentally acquired through his jeans. John gasps into Sherlock's mouth. Everything is rushed and heated and  _beautiful_ and completely confusing. He can feel Sherlock's hands all over him. His fingers are splaying over John's neck and creeping beneath his shirt and touching his stomach and grabbing possessively at his hips, and John wants him, he wants him so terribly that it verges on  _painful._ But that voice, it's screaming now. It's yelling and it's begging desperately, “ _John! John, what are you doing?! Look at the person on top of you! A man! With a cock! One you'll be expected to handle, if you allow this to go any farther!”_

He gulps as it strikes him over the head.

_Oh shit._

Sherlock tears his lips away from John's. He's pressing them over John's jaw, exposing his teeth to John's neck, tongue dancing over his throat. John holds his moan in. He has to stop this. He  _has_ to stop this. “Sherlock.” he whispers. Sherlock takes a perfectly pressured nibble at his neck and John finds himself squirming beneath him. “Sherlock.” he murmurs. He closes his eyes, his body and mind seem to be in all out war. “Sherlock, I--”

He feels Sherlock's lips leave his skin. John's body almost instinctively attempts to follow them, arching upward, but John stops himself. He  _has_ to. Sherlock's body tenses over him and he finally opens his eyes. 

They're staring at one another. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow, his eyes narrow, he's searching John's face. John swallows. “I'm sorry.” he says quietly. “I can't. I'm not--”

Sherlock's face falls slack. The sudden change causes John to stop mid-thought. Is that hurt? Is that confusion? Several emotions seem to flash over Sherlock's face, and John can't seem to catch a single one properly. Sherlock quickly pushes himself off the bed, standing upright. John can almost see the inner turmoil as Sherlock tries to cover it up. His face, only moments later, is the epitome of cool indifference. John sits upright finally, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I'm really--”

Sherlock cuts him off with a single raising of his hand. He gives John a quick glance before dropping his hand. Neither of them speak as he turns and opens John's door.

John knows he should move, should follow Sherlock, should apologize for letting it get as far as it had, but he can't seem to budge from his spot. He listens as Sherlock swiftly strides down the hall, opens the door, and leaves without any sign of emotional distress—he doesn't slam the door, he doesn't shout something nasty over his shoulder, he just walks out, and shuts the door behind him.

And John is left with a suddenly hollow feeling he can't quite comprehend.

  
  


  
  


Three days.

_Three days._

He knows that's not a very long time for a silence. Not by any stretch of the imagination.  _Especially_ in the circumstance of he and Sherlock's... what does he call it? Relationship? Friendship?  _Acquaintanceship_ ? He knows that three days of silence in a  _situation_ (he's decided to call it that, for now, until something else comes about) like theirs is probably typical. After all, they'd only known each other for two days prior to their three day silence. 

But it feels much  _worse_ than just a silence, John thinks with a sigh. It feels like punishment, like agony. It feels like the crumbling of a  _situation_ that hadn't even had the chance to bloom properly. He was  _comfortable_ around Sherlock. He was  _content_ around Sherlock. All in two days time. 

He's been waiting, he realizes, for Sherlock to appear outside of Bart's, to stop him outside his flat, to somehow have managed to break in and be sitting on the couch when he returns. He's not sure why, knows it would be  _unlikely_ , but it doesn't stop his chest from filling with hope each time he returns to each place. 

John  _wants_ to pursue a friendship with Sherlock Holmes. This is an idea that is seemingly engraved into his skull. He  _wants_ to be Sherlock's friend. Wants to be included in that group in Sherlock's strange, brilliant mind, the one that places him in the “us” as opposed to the “them”. 

Three days of silence.

John is pacing in his room again. He's got his phone clutched in his hand. He's making a decision, a bold one, one that he wouldn't normally make. He finally sits down upon his bed and punches in the suddenly familiar numbers into the dial pad. His mind is made up. He refuses to stand down this time. He swallows as he presses the phone to his ear. His heart is thumping against his ribs as it rings out.

After four rings, there is silence.

He pauses. It sounds as though there's been a pick up on the other end. He listens carefully, waiting for the telltale sounds of breathing. Nothing comes. He glances at the phones screen quickly—it says it's connected. The timer has started, at any rate. He puts the phone back to his ear. “Hello?” he asks.

He gets no reply.

Checks the screen again—still connected.

“Are you there?”

He hears the sound of a loud sigh, then suddenly, “Yes. I'm here. Can I help you?” Sherlock mumbles the words, attempting to keep his voice quiet? John clears his throat. “Hi. It's John.”

“I know.” Sherlock replies shortly.

John swallows again. “How've you been?”

“Fine.”

More silence.

John's leg is bouncing without his consent. He presses his palm into his knee, hoping to settle the bounce. It does little. “So... how are your... classes going then?” he asks. He hears Sherlock sigh once again, this time it's thoroughly exasperated. “Must we go through all of these awkward  _pleasantries?”_ Sherlock asks, “I haven't the time to--”

“Right. No, of course not.” John cuts him off. He sighs, finally steadying his leg. “Look, I just... I just wanted to ring you up and apologize.” he says. The words come out a bit slower, a bit weaker than he'd imagined saying them, but it seems to take the same effect. Sherlock is silent. “I feel like I...”

“ _You're_ apologizing?” Sherlock says suddenly.

Johns eyebrows furrow. “Well... well, yeah. I figured it was the decent thing to do, since I--”

“You think you lead me on.” Sherlock answers.

John is silent. He swallows. There's a silence on the line again. It lasts so long, he has to glance down at the phone and check the connection once again. “I--”

“John.” Sherlock says. “You didn't  _lead me on._ Not...” he sighs. “Not in the manner in which you're thinking.” He clears his throat. “My behavior that night was...  _inappropriate._ I wasn't in a proper state. I acted without thinking, which is by  _no_ means an act I'm familiar with.” He goes silent once again. John listens to the nothingness on the other end of the line. It puzzles him that he can't even hear Sherlock's  _breathing._ Finally, Sherlock speaks again. “I would have  _never_ considered such behavior had I been in my right mind.”

“In your right mind?” John asks. Momentarily, he feels a little sting, a small hint of insecurity that wonders  _why_ Sherlock would never consider such behavior with him. He pushes past it quickly.

“Well, yes. Of course.” Sherlock replies.

“I wasn't aware that you weren't.”

“Of course I wasn't.”

John's brows knit. “Well, why weren't you?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment. “I was certain you'd already obtained that information.”

“How would I--” John stops mid-thought. Even for him, who is  _not_ some sort of deductive genius, the answer seems clear. John had, in fact, mentioned his knowledge of Sherlock's “recreational drug” use. Had mentioned it offhandedly, almost jokingly. Sherlock, as he recalls, had never denied it. “Oh.” he says suddenly. Sherlock doesn't reply. “ _Oh.”_ John repeats. He doesn't call it by name, but he understands. “Right.” 

“Problem?” Sherlock asks.

It  _is._ A little bit. John is concerned for Sherlock. For Sherlock's well-being. The future doctor in him understands how devastating such things can be to someone. He's sure that Sherlock would know such things as well. He swallows. He knows he should say something about it, a friendly warning, an public service announcement, but he can't. Not yet. It's not his place yet. They hardly know one another (besides, of course, the intimacies granted in sloppy, inebriated kisses, but that's not nearly as telling as conversation.) Sherlock would easily shrug such notions off, dismiss him completely, make sure to distance himself. And that, John knows, is not something he wants. “No.” he says finally, trying to keep his voice casual. “What you do in your spare time is up to you, way I see it.”

There's a moment of silence before Sherlock says, “Of course.”

“Point is,” John says, segueing, “I just... thought you should know that... well, I guess that it's alright. Everything, I mean.” He doesn't want to think about which “recreational drugs” Sherlock uses. A spliff now and again isn't the end of the world but Sherlock's behavior that night definitely  _wasn't_ from a bit of smoke. “Anyway, I understand. You know. I just seem to have that affect on people.” He hates the joke the moment it comes from his mouth, but he decides to laugh because Sherlock has let a small laugh escape through the phone. “Pure, animal magnetism, I'm sure.” Sherlock says with a chuckle.

“The purist available.” Another joke he regrets. He doesn't apologize for it, because Sherlock is still chuckling, and that seems to make it alright.

By the time they've hung up, they've arranged for lunch the next day. The weight John's been carrying since that evening is lifted. He's surprised, really, at how easy it was. And though his mind doubles back over the conversation a few times (“I would  _never_ ”, what did that mean? Was it because of John? He'd seemed pretty  _keen_ in John's opinion, if he had to form one.), he feels pleased. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to clarify one thing, on the off chance that anyone noticed and mentioned it.
> 
> I did a little bit of research (aka spent too much time on google), going about the years of the canonical Sherlock and John's birthdays. Obviously, because I wanted to figure out what the age difference between them was (I'd heard five years, but I wasn't one-hundred percent about that.) According to various sources, they have (approximately) two years in age difference. 
> 
> Good. Now that I've clarified (Lol.)
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you for reading.

“So this is your room.” John says, glancing around the dorm room with his arms crossed.

Sherlock doesn't reply, just shrugs and sticks his hands into his pockets. 

“You don't have a roommate.” John states.

Sherlock shakes his head, a small smirk coming to his lips. “Had one, once. Apparently, I'm rather hard to live with.” he replies. John tilts his head, eyes narrowing inquisitively. “So you just... don't get new blokes moving in?”

“As it happens, no.” Sherlock says breezily. “Apparently, the assumption is I've a disorder which makes me  _slightly_ more disagreeable than the average twenty-something University male.” He clears off the wooden chair before the desk and gestures towards it. John does, in fact, take the seat, still glancing around the room. It's  _nothing_ as he thought it'd be. Everything about Sherlock seemed to read clean, smooth, obsessive compulsive even. To finally see where he lives and find that it's in a complete  _tip_ is almost laughable. There are books and notebooks and loose papers and clothes scattered about, boxes of miscellaneous bits and pieces covered with stacks of things begging to tip over. It  _is_ laughable, but it nearly makes sense. It matches Sherlock's eccentricities. 

It's been a long time coming, however. They'd been attached at the hip for the last month or so, meeting for coffee or sitting in the library or strolling about London. The longer John is around Sherlock, he realizes, the easier he becomes to read. Though even after a month of being around him, he's still fairly elusive. Hell, he's been  _begging_ Sherlock to tell him where he goes to school, to show him his place. After two and a half weeks of constant nagging, Sherlock finally relents.

Completely unexpected. John is constantly surprised by Sherlock, in the best way possible.

“Do you  _actually_ have some sort of disorder?” John asks, watching as Sherlock pulls his blanket taut along his bed and takes a seat. He looks thoughtfully to the ceiling, then back to John. “Ask any of the people on this level and they'll be sure to tell you all about my numerous  _disorders.”_ he replies finally. John furrows his brows, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I'm surprised you didn't hear the murmuring as we came up, John.  _Psychopath_ is a common diagnosis amongst my peers.” He lays back on his bed, crossing his legs at the ankle and grabbing up a book from the nightstand. John gives a small chuckle. “I've learned not to listen to most peoples diagnosis' of others. They tend to be ill-informed.” 

“Mm. Correct you are. However, in this case, they have data to back up their assumptions.” Sherlock replies, flipping the book open at random.

John's eyebrows furrow. “And how's that?”

Sherlock shoots him a glance, then looks back to the page before him. “First-hand experience.” he says easily.

John's confused. “You aren't psychopathic, though. If you were—oh.” The realization hits him. Sherlock smirks, turning the page with more flourish than necessary. “There was a time when I attempted to socialize with those around me. I made very  _honest_ attempts be accepted.” he says loftily. 

“You egg on the rumors by being completely incorrigible to everyone.” 

“You  _are_ a rather quick study, aren't you?” Sherlock smiles, his eyes flickering up to meet John's for a moment before settling back to his book. “I found that no matter how hard I tried to  _fit-in_ , as it were, I simply wasn't going to. Exacerbating their tales, I've found, is much more entertaining.” he explains quite simply. John shakes his head, a smile on his lips. “Do you observe them a lot? Is that why they say those things?” he asks offhandedly, rifling through some of the papers on his desk. Sherlock is silent for a moment. He doesn't speak until John looks up from the papers. “I don't observe them anymore than the average person.”

“So obviously you know their life stories, then.” John says with a smirk.

Sherlock's face has fallen slack for a moment. “I happen to notice new things about them merely because I'm in their presence constantly.” Sherlock explains. He's slightly defensive. John's smirk falters slightly. He clears his throat. “I think it's brilliant, personally.” he says, looking back to the papers. “Makes the relationship easier, I'd think. I wouldn't have to explain anything embarrassing to you. You'd just sort of already  _know.”_

_“_ I do believe that's the problem most people have with me.” Sherlock adds.

“I like it. Way I see it, if you already  _know_ all the embarrassing bits about me and you're still talking to me, then you'd be more of a friend than someone who I'd have to eventually come to tell all that too.” John explains. He shrugs his shoulders easily, his eyes scanning over the papers quickly. “Makes the whole thing more up-front. No pretending. I can just... be myself.” 

There's another silence in which John is nearly certain Sherlock is staring at him. He can almost feel the eyes blazing into his skull. He doesn't look up immediately, instead attempts to read some of the words on the page. Ah, it's an essay. A long one. A graded one. High marks. Of course. He looks back to Sherlock to find that his attention has been averted back to the book before him. “So... I understand about the people thinking you've got a screw loose. But doesn't the staff have some sort of... paperwork or something? Medical records and the like. They'd know if you had an actual disorder.” John says into the silence. 

Sherlock makes an affirmative noise, but doesn't look up.

“But they still insist on keeping people from moving in? That doesn't add up, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock lifts his eyes, locking them onto John's. There's a silent moment that passes through them, one that seems to communicate things much more effectively than words could. John's jaw slackens slightly. He tries to hide his surprise. “So--”

“ _Socio_ pathic.” Sherlock interrupts him. “Or at least, that's what the files says.”

John's eyebrows furrow once again. “Really?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, eyes back to his book. “I've never been much of a  _social butterfly,_ as it were. Was always much more interested in scientific studies. Mummy thought it may be wise to have me examined.” he confesses. He sounds nonchalant, but John can tell that he's nervous about his confessions. It becomes blatantly obvious that he doesn't speak of them often. “The diagnosis is quite out-of-date, in all fairness. But, since I've yet to refute it, the records still stand.” Sherlock is merely staring at the page now, John can tell this. He's keeping his face completely slack, uninterested even, but John isn't daft. He doesn't mention how obvious Sherlock is. “I rather prefer it at this point.” Sherlock continues. “I have better accommodation for it, and people tend to keep themselves out of my business. It suits me.”

“Don't you ever get... I don't know, lonely?” John asks. It comes out quicker than his brain allows.

“Used to. I found distractions that suited my needs.” Sherlock says shortly.

“You don't now?”

“On occasion. Not recently.” 

“Why's that?”

They lock eyes once again. Sherlock's expression is blank. “Thought that would've been obvious.”

John's stomach does a back flip. He hopes it doesn't show on his face. Sherlock doesn't need to tell him blatantly—he gets it. His lips curl up into a small smile, and Sherlock returns the gesture, and that is the confirmation. John cures his loneliness. John won't tell Sherlock he's done the same for him. 

A comfortable silence hovers over them, warm and fuzzy around the edges, like a blanket on a cold night. Sherlock doesn't question John when he stands and begins thoroughly investigating his belongings. He watches him out of the corner of his eye, a small smirk hovering at the corner of his mouth. When John glances at him, he manages to quickly look back to his book. “Can I admit something?” John asks suddenly. Sherlock doesn't set his book down, doesn't even  _look_ at John, but he replies, “If it's about the state of my room, I already know.”

“Know what?”

“That it's not what you were expecting.”

John can't help the small chuckle that escapes him. “Should've known you'd have already caught on.”

“What about it doesn't meet expectations?” Sherlock asks, settling the book on his stomach. He looks over to John, who is now eying him. John shrugs, “Thought it'd be a bit...  _cleaner,_ I suppose.” he confesses. Sherlock's brow creases, and John laughs once again. “You just always look so... put-together.” he explains to Sherlock's exaggerated frown. “It just... well, at first it didn't fit.”

Sherlock continues staring, but he's no longer frowning. “It does  _now_ ?” he asks, voice rolling in confusion.

“Well, yeah.” John says with a shrug. “It's a bit eccentric. Loads of stuff packed into a tiny space. I think it makes perfect sense.” His fingers are casually touching the binding of each book he comes across. Textbooks for classes, literary classics, titles in foreign languages—Sherlock seems to have amassed a sizable collection of any and all books. The silence that seems to hover over the room is comfortable. Words aren't necessary to fill in the air around them. John takes his time around the room, inspecting each piece of paper, each book binding, each box of miscellaneous bits and pieces. 

After a while, Sherlock doesn't even feel the need to watch. And it's both pleasant and unnerving.

 

 

 

“You never told me, you know.”

Sherlock's brows furrow inquisitively at John. It's a rare day in which he's actually  _famished_ , and so he finds himself enjoying the Chinese before him. John, he's noticed, has a tendency to start conversations with statements. Ones that seem open-ended and completely baffling. There are many things Sherlock hasn't told John. It's hard to deduce which he's talking about this time. “Never told you, what?” Sherlock asks over his chicken.

“What it is you do. Remember, I asked you if you worked--”

“And I replied 'in a way'. Which is still an accurate answer.”

“So what do you do, exactly? Seems like you've always got the days off.”

“I do most of my work in the evening.”

John wraps his fork into his chow-mien, making a tight knot. He's crap with chopsticks, so he never bothers, but Sherlock uses chopsticks as though he's only ever used them to eat ever. It's another random note about Sherlock that John stores away. He's begun storing these little notes in his head. They make him feel better about the mystery that seems to surround Sherlock, these little pieces of information (the way he takes his coffee, the peculiar way he sits on couches, etc.), as Sherlock is consistently hesitant to divulge much more information about his past.

But obviously, those bits are never enough.

“You are brilliant at dodging questions, you know that?” John asks with a smirk. He glances up at Sherlock and finds that he's smirking in reply. Neither of them speak for a moment. John finally brings the tightly-coiled noodles to his lips. “It's more freelance work.” Sherlock finally says. “In a manner of speaking.” 

John chews his food slowly, eying Sherlock. A few different ideas seem to pop in his head, varying from almost mundane to entirely too sexual to make him comfortable. He hopes beyond hope that it doesn't show on his face. Sherlock pops another piece of chicken into his mouth without a word. If he sees it, then he doesn't mention it. “Freelance work as in...” John prompts.

“Make a deduction.” Sherlock says, spearing a piece of chicken on his chopstick.

“Oh... Oh, no. I've got no skill in that.”

“It isn't difficult, John. Everyone must start somewhere. Besides, this one is obvious.” Sherlock's voice is lofty. “At least, if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention.”

John sighs, but he's smiling. He's been paying  _loads_ of attention. But Sherlock doesn't need to know that. He props his elbows upon the table, clasping his hands beside his mouth. He stares at Sherlock with an eyebrow quirked dramatically, and a small chuckle escapes from Sherlock. “Freelance. Self-employed, then. Writer comes to mind? No, you wouldn't write. No patience for something like that.” John says.

“Good, good. Go on.” Sherlock encourages lightly.

“It would be something that plays to your strengths. So you have to use your  _deductive reasoning_ abilities.” 

“Very good.” Sherlock says with a nod. He, too, props his elbows upon the table, mimicking John's position. He locks eyes with John, unblinkingly. “So then, what is it that I do?” he asks. His fingers steeple, the tips just beneath his nose. He's watching John like a hawk. It causes John's stomach to do a strange lurch he's not entirely uncomfortable with. “Do you...” he trails off, lost for a moment under Sherlock's gaze. Strange, semi-familiar urges begin to creep up his spine, attempting to force him forward, to press his lips to Sherlock's, but he hides it with a shift in his seat. He isn't entirely certain where it came from. It's another moment he hopes isn't sprawled across his face. He leans back, shrugging his shoulders and flopping his hands defeatedly into his lap. “I haven't the faintest.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shaking his head and sitting back. “That was severely disappointing.” he says with a sigh.

“We can't all be as brilliant as you.”

“That wasn't a matter of brilliance. I know from the tension in your face that you had several ideas on the matter. It's obvious you were simply too afraid to voice them.”

“How close was I, anyway?”

“I'm not a mind reader. I can only observe the details of your facial expressions and body language.” 

“Now  _that_ is disappointing.”

Sherlock scowls at John's smirk. John can't help the small amount of glee he feels at getting one-up on Sherlock. It's not as though it's too terribly difficult, considering how often they're around one another and how well John's begun recognizing Sherlock's antics, but it never seems to lose its satisfying effects. Sherlock straightens his back, squares his shoulders, then looks to John. “Go on.” he says.

“Go on, what?”

“Go on. Give me your best idea.”

“I haven't got one.”

“You do. Don't play stupid, it's unbecoming of you.” Sherlock states, making to pick up his chopsticks once again. John shoots Sherlock a rather sarcastic smile as he says “Oh, is it? So it might pain you to hear, then, that my  _first_ idea was stripper.” He says it deliberately enunciated, furrowing his eyebrows thoughtfully and watching Sherlock. “You know, a regular  _Chippendale,_ bit of floss and all.” 

Sherlock's face holds no reaction, initially. As John continues staring, however, he notices the slight fluctuations in his face, as though he is—very intensely—attempting to keep his face set. Though what expression he is attempting to settle, John can't be sure. Finally, Sherlock cracks a smirk. It's a wicked smirk that John isn't too sure he likes. “What?” John asks.

“You imagined  _me_ as a Chippendale?” Sherlock asks, smirk in place, eyebrow quirked.

John realizes how it sounds once Sherlock says it. He knows he should probably back-pedal, explain that  _no,_ he hadn't actually envisioned Sherlock's hips gyrating seductively as he flicked the buttons of a mock-police costume undone. The fact that it has crossed his mind isn't what alarms him. It's the idea that it was something he might like seeing.  _Oh boy._ “Fits the criteria, doesn't it?” He says instead. He ticks off each point with his fingers, “Only work in the evening,  _more_ freelance work, as though you  _could_ be hired for a length of time, but generally bounce about.”  _Certainly fit enough,_ John thinks, but he doesn't mention that fact. Instead he shrugs, grabbing up his fork once again and spearing a piece of beef. 

Sherlock doesn't speak for a moment. John doesn't look at him, pretends to be more interested in the piece of broccoli he's sliding around his plate. “Interesting analysis.” Sherlock says slowly. The lilt in his voice tells John that he's thoroughly amused by the idea. John can't help the smirk that twitches at the  corner of his mouth. “However, taking my kit off has  _nothing_ to do with my observations.” Sherlock continues, “And you  _did_ establish that it would be an ability I'd use.”

John laughs a small, quiet laugh. “That was  _before_ I'd decided you'd use your observations.” 

“Your literal first thought of my occupation was a Chippendale dancer? I believe I should be flattered.”

John has to fight the blush that threatens to spread over his face. “So what do you actually do then.” John says, veering the conversation away. He has those thoughts, those accidentally  _sexual_ thoughts, about Sherlock more often than he'd like to admit. He's not necessarily  _ashamed_ of them, understands that he's young and is  _bound_ to consider his options with any gender. He also considers how influenced he might be by Sherlock's act of indiscretion at the second meeting. He's lost in thought, watching Sherlock's mouth move without hearing what he's saying. Oh, he's speaking. Is he telling? He comes back to find Sherlock saying “...It seems to work more efficiently in the evening. Not  _nearly_ as many people to hindrance me.” Sherlock pops another piece of chicken into his mouth, then looks expectantly to John.

John blanches. He hasn't heard a single thing. “Erm.”

Sherlock swallows, smirking. “I thought you weren't listening.”

“I was.”

“You weren't. Your eyes were out of focus and your breathing practically halted.” 

John rolls his eyes, “Then why'd you keep talking?”

“Well, that's obvious, I'd have thought.” Sherlock says, twirling chow-mien around his sticks, “There's no reason for you to claim I've never told you. It certainly isn't my fault you weren't paying attention.” he continues, winding the noodles tighter and tighter before slipping them between his lips. John stares, shaking his head slowly. “Cheeky bugger.” he says.

Sherlock shoots a quick smile, a rather proud one.

“Alright. Well, I'm listening now.”

“That's fortunate. You should  _eat_ your food instead of  _playing_ with it, John.”

“As though you've the place to tell me how to eat properly.” John retorts with a laugh.

“I happen to be half-finished with my own plate. I can't say the same of you.”

John looks down and realizes that Sherlock—for once—has nearly finished an entire plate of food. He looks literally dumbfounded, which he is, in all rights. Just about two months of knowing and being in the constant presence of Sherlock and he'd yet to see Sherlock ever eat more than a biscuit or two along with his tea. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the over exaggerated look on John's face. “No need to alert the media, John.”

“What do you do, Sherlock.” John replies.

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “I'm something like a detective.” he admits after a moment of silence.

John's eyebrows furrow. “A detective?”

“Yes. On occasion, people come to me for help in... well, a number of things. Most cases I don't take on, most are quite  _dull.”_ Sherlock tells his chopsticks. He leaves it at that, snatching up another roll of noodles and sliding it into his mouth. John cocks his head, eying Sherlock. “What types of cases?” he inquires. Sherlock eyes him for a moment, then finally shrugs. “Bit of everything, I suppose.”

“So... you mean a sort of private detective?” John urges on.

“Something like that.”

“Following people about, gathering notes...”

“I have, in the past. They aren't quite the stimulation I look for in a case.”

“No?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I only work on things that interest me, things that present a challenge. I don't work often. It's more or less a hobby at this moment. Albeit an all-consuming one.” 

“So how do you have the car and the--”

Sherlock simply looks at him, the expression on his sharp features screaming ' _obvious.'_ John stops mid-thought and nods. Ah, yes. Parents. Of course. Sherlock pushes the plate away and leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Is that disappointing?” he asks nonchalantly. John's brows furrow deeper as he shakes his head, “Why would that be disappointing?”

“Not  _quite_ as stimulating as a Chippendale dancer...” Sherlock replies loftily, glancing out of the window with haughtily raised eyebrows.

John laughs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “I'm not going to live that down, am I?”

“Oh, don't fret. I'll only store it away and pull it up when I need a good laugh.” 

“That makes me feel  _loads_ better, thanks.”

There is a moment of silence that settles over them where neither seems to meet eyes. “I'd like to come with, some time.” John says suddenly. Sherlock's focus snaps back to him, expression inquiring. “Come with?”

“Yeah. You know, on a case.”

Sherlock's brows furrow. “Why?”

John shrugs. “Don't know. Could be interesting, to see what you do. In a more  _professional_ aspect.” he says. 

Sherlock isn't sure how to reply. He considers the idea of John along. Bullet points of both pros and cons seem to jump into his head, measuring whether or not John tagging along would be a hindrance or prove helpful. He decides to think it through later, when he's in peace, when he'd have a moment to properly analyze such an idea. John is watching him expectantly. He decides to reply with a noncommittal sound. 

 

 

  


Sherlock obsessively flicks through the channels, his thumb pressing the button far quicker than John had ever been able to. John is in the kitchen, watching the half-second blurs of shows as the kettle warms. The volume on the telly is quite high, each voice and jingle nearly deafening as they pass beneath Sherlock's quick button-deployment. He turns his eyes to Sherlock—his knees are drawn up to his chest, his chin is practically resting upon them. One arm is wrapped around his legs, and the other is stuck straight out, perfectly parallel to the floor. It's in that hand that the remote is grasped. John's tempted to rush out and snatch it from his hand. “Pick something, will you?” he says instead, fixing both mugs for tea.

“I don't understand how people  _willingly_ watch telly. There's literally nothing of interest on  _any_ of the stations.” Sherlock says, going through the channels once again. “Even the  _news_ is being dreadfully boring. Where are the murders? The arsonists?” he asks no one. After what seems like twenty more rounds, he finally shuts the box off and sighs, flopping his head back onto the couch. “How do you  _cope_ with such vapid stimulus? I can't possibly imagine sitting in front of a telly all day.” he mutters. 

John settles Sherlock's cup of tea on the table before them and takes a seat beside him. He slips the remote from Sherlock's long fingers and turns it back on, lowering the volume to near nothing. “How can you even tell what was  _playing_ on each channel, Sherlock? You see maybe a second of each programme.”

“Didn't need to see more.”

“I bet I can find something worth watching.”

“I don't bet.”

“Why not? Afraid to lose?”

“Betting is boring when you always win.”

John rolls his eyes, beginning his own much slower scan of the channels. He settles it on a news station. Sherlock heaves a sigh and allows his legs to flop out from beneath him, stretching out beneath the table. They're silent for a moment, staring blankly at the television, when suddenly Sherlock turns his head toward John. “What are you planning on doing with your schooling?” he asks.

John looks to Sherlock, eyebrow quirked. “How do you mean?”

“Once you've finished at Bart's. What do you plan on doing with what you've learned?”

John smiles. “Is that a bit like asking what I want to be when I grow up?” 

Sherlock scowls. “If it makes the question easier to answer.”

John sighs, turning to look at the ceiling. “Well... always imagined I'd go into the military.” he replies. He can see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock is scowling still. “The  _military?_ ” Sherlock asks incredulously. John shrugs, his eyes still locked on the smooth surface above him. “Tradition, sort of. The men in my family have always gone into the military. My father did, his father did, his father before him did.” he explains. Sherlock is still scowling, but it softens just slightly. John dares to look at him properly then. “What better a way to use my knowledge? Sure, I  _could_ always try to slip into a clinic somewhere, work emergency.” he continues, “But... I don't know. Like I said, all my family has done it. I wouldn't want to be the odd one out.”

“Whats wrong with being the odd one out?” Sherlock asks, voice genuinely curious.

John considers it for a moment. “Nothing, I suppose.” he replies simply. Another silence passes over them before John speaks again. “Just feel the need to serve my country.” he shrugs easily, and the scowl returns to Sherlock's face before it turns back to the telly. “Patriotism.” Sherlock says, “Queen and country.” 

“Nothing wrong with being patriotic.” John retorts, shifting in his seat.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Why, what do you plan on doing?” 

Sherlock exhales slowly. “Fall off the face of the Earth, perhaps. To see if it can be done.” he replies. His eyes are locked onto the television, dispassionate and slightly unfamiliar. John's brow creases in concern. “Not really, right?” he inquires. He watches Sherlock breathing. It's light and barely visible, and practically silent, until he pushes himself upright and sits properly. “No. It's not possible to fall off the face of the Earth.” he retorts after a moment. He grabs up his tea and takes a sip, wetting his lips. “Travel, I suppose. I've been around most of Europe. Might be fascinating to travel farther out in any direction.” he explains. 

“Join the military, then.” John says with a smirk.

“I'd rather chew through my own tongue.” Sherlock replies.

John laughs, he can't help himself. “What problem do you have with it?”

Sherlock sips his tea again. “It's not so much the  _military_ I have any qualms with. I fear it's my older brother that has ruined my opinion of government in general.” 

“You have an older brother?” John asks, voice baffled.

“Unfortunately.”

“Don't get on very well?”

“He's a fat sod.”

“Ah. I've a sister.” John replies, as though that's enough of an explanation. He knows that for Sherlock, it certainly is. They remain quiet for a moment before Sherlock leans back into the couch once again. “My point being that I'd rather travel without an order hovering over me.” he says finally.

John nods. “Have you begun planning for that?” 

“Not particularly. It's not exactly an idea I've set in stone.”

“Oh.”

“Have you?” Sherlock asks, turning to look to John once again.

John sits in a pensive silence for a moment. “In a way.” he replies finally.

Sherlock nods. He doesn't seem to be interested in asking anymore questions.

  
  



	5. Five

Six months time seems to fly by. 

It was startling to John how close he'd become to Sherlock. It had, of course, been the initial plan. Not that John was much for planning, let alone  _executing_ said plans, but it was a pleasant surprise to have Sherlock Holmes come to him in hours of need. And John, of course, had come to think of him as his best friend. Sure, he had other mates, ones to dick around with on the off chance that Sherlock wasn't available. But if he had to make the decision between them and him... it was easy. Us versus them, and he silently loved it.

He's seen so often, the residential staff don't spare him a passing glance when he steps out of the elevator. He's started to warrant his own murmurs in the common areas, people glancing at him quickly and watching until he's out of sight before spreading rumors. He's heard the words, the ones Sherlock speaks of. He hears them asking one another “Does the  _psychopath_ have a boyfriend?” They haven't introduced themselves, preferring to watch from afar and ogle him as though some sort of circus act. It was bothersome, at first, as most things are. But after a week or so of such chatter, it merely became dull. No one ever seemed to be able to answer the questions, no one ever seemed to confront him about the questions. He certainly wasn't going to just walk up and clear it up. It wasn't his place.

He knocks upon the familiar door with three quick taps. He can hear rustling inside, a scurrying sort of noise. “What?” a voice on the other side snaps. “I'm not interested in your stupid, bloody bake sale.” His voice is quick and sharp. John's jaw clenches. “You sure? Got your favorite biscuits.” he calls back. The movement stops for a moment, and everything behind the door is left in complete silence. Then there are quick stomps toward the door and suddenly it flings open.

Sherlock is looking manic. His shirt is untucked from his trousers and his eyes are wild. They scan over John quickly and make it back to his face in what seems like no more than a second. “Why are you knocking?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows furrowing. John mimics the look. “Because it's polite?” he replies. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns back into his room. John follows, shutting Sherlock's door quietly behind him. 

The room is  _clean._

No, not clean. Put away. Everything is put away into boxes. Large boxes, ones that probably contain all the other smaller boxes that are normally scattered about. John sets his book bag down onto the floor and walks in further. His eyebrows are still furrowed. Sherlock is standing before an open box, carefully placing wrapped items inside, though he's moving quickly. “Sherlock.” John says.

Sherlock swings around to face him.

“What's--”

“I'm done.” Sherlock cuts him short, turning back to the box and grabbing up a stack of papers. 

“Done?” John asks, peeking into one of the open boxes. It's filled with books. He looks back to Sherlock, who is dumping a draw of clothing onto his bed. He's sorting through them, creating three piles with quick sweeps of his eyes and quicker flicks of his wrists. “What do you mean,  _done?”_ John inquires, concern creeping up into his chest.

“As in, I'm leaving.” Sherlock's voice is flat. He doesn't offer an explanation.

“Leaving?”

“Yes, John. Leaving. Not returning? Surely you've heard of the action.” 

And now dread has wormed its way into John's stomach. Absolute, heart-breaking dread. Sherlock wouldn't already be leaving, would he? Surely he wasn't  _already_ done? He'd have told John that, would've boasted about his ability to succeed amidst the idiocy of the general University population. They'd have discussed what he was going to do next, where he was going to travel to. John would've had time to cope, wouldn't he? 

Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have said a thing. That seems just as likely. Sherlock isn't one for sentiment. John realizes it wouldn't be unlikely that Sherlock hadn't considered that John would miss him when he left. Hadn't even thought of how it might affect John in the way it most definitely would. 

John can't think of a single word to say. He's standing beside the box of books, staring at Sherlock's back. He swallows back whatever he's about to say, though he's not quite sure which words are trapped in his throat. Sherlock turns to look at him, holding up a pair of jeans. “Should I keep these? Of course I should keep these, why wouldn't I? They still fit, though admittedly they're a bit worn through. Perhaps I should bin them.” he speaks rapid-fire, looking between John and the trousers in his hands. He turns once again, chucking them into one of the piles. 

“Right.” John replies. 

He makes his way to Sherlock's side, eying each pile accordingly before glancing to Sherlock. He's got one hand upon his narrow hip and the others fingers are tapping gingerly against his bottom lip. His eyes are roving quickly over each pile, over each item of clothing. Finally, he turns, snatching up a box and flopping it onto his bed. “So... so, you're just... leaving then?” John tries to keep his voice level as he says it, but there is a panic sitting like lead in his stomach and it comes out of his mouth slightly more raw than anticipated. Sherlock doesn't catch it. “Yes. Yes, it's for the best. It's been decided.” 

John's brows furrow. “For the best?”

“Obviously.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was a bit of entertainment in the beginning. Now it's just grown tiresome.” 

“What has?”

“My residency.”

John's brows furrow deeper. He watches Sherlock pack up the box with clothing, following his hands as they shift from cloth to cardboard and back. “Your... wait, what?” John asks. Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. “If you're going to hang about and ask unfinished questions, the very least you can do is assist me in packing.” he says roughly. 

“Well... alright. But I haven't got a clue what I'm packing.”

“Anything? Everything? Each of the boxes is already labeled, do keep up.” Sherlock spits quickly, “Shall I walk you through it?”

“Alright, alright. No need to be a prat.” John replies hotly. He grabs up one of the empty boxes and checks the scrawl across the flap, then begins gently laying books into the bottom of the box. He swallows over the words that are sitting in his throat once again, still unsure of which ones were attempting to push themselves forward. Alongside the dread and panic, a fresh wave of worry has settled itself like an anchor in his chest. They work in remote silence. John is listening intently to Sherlock's rustling, quick and thorough. He mutters beneath his breath on occasion, words that are being whispered too quick for John to decipher. 

“So.” John says into the silence.

“You've got questions.” Sherlock replies.

“Always.”

“Go on, then.”

John wets his lips. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “What are you going to do?” he asks. He could think of many other questions, but that seems to be the first to surface. Sherlock turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“You're leaving, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you going to do? What are you doing first?”

Sherlock's eyes shoot around the room curiously. They stop on John. “I don't... understand.” he admits.

“How do you  _not_ understand?” John is getting irritated. He can feel his blood begin to boil uncomfortably in his veins. Sherlock can't seriously be playing with him at this point, could he? It was hard enough for him to consider Sherlock leaving him until further notice, but to have Sherlock teasing him? Sherlock tilts his head. His eyes narrow. He steps toward John, hands behind his back. He's searching his face. This time, John allows whatever he's feeling to show. It's easier if Sherlock just sees it himself.

Sherlock doesn't enjoy the confusion that is taking hold of him. Billions of ideas are buzzing in his head, none seem to make any sense. He stares hard at John, reading his features. He's upset. Extremely upset. Why? For what purpose?  _Focus, concentrate. One thing. John. What's going on? He's upset. Why would he be upset? I'm leaving. He's grown fond of the place? No, he's concerned. Oh, he thinks I've been booted? Thinks I'm... oh. He thinks I'm done. Leaving. Leaving for good. Leaving and not returning. To London. I see. Thinks I'm executing my traveling plan. Until further notice. Sentiment. He's feeling sentimental. Over me. Over me?_ His thoughts are moving much faster than normal, speeding along side his rapidly racing heart. They nearly blur together in his head, but if anyone has the ability to suss out his own head, it's certainly him. 

The flicker of realization comes over Sherlock's face. John allows his features to slacken just slightly. There is a silence that comes over the room, palpable and tense. Neither seems to know what to say. Sherlock's heart is thumping against his ribcage. He's attempting to steady himself, only slightly. His next train of thought must be cool and calm and nonchalant. He clears his throat, hands moving to his hips. He wets his lips and glances around the floor. “I'll need... a bit of assistance.” he says finally. “Moving the boxes, I mean.”

John stares blankly. “Moving them where?”

“To my flat.”

“Your... what?”

Sherlock smirks only slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets. He takes a deep breath. “My flat. I've got a flat. I'm done  _here._ In this  _dormitory.”_ he explains. His heart is still thumping against his ribcage and his brain is still sprinting laps around itself but he's keeping himself steady enough. John is staring still. His jaw is slightly slack. “Your flat. You've got a flat.” he seems to be repeating.

“Yes.”

“Why's that?”

“Finally took up Mummy's offer.”

“She offered you a flat.”

Sherlock nods.

“And you've taken it.”

Sherlock nods again.

“You're not leaving school.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, “I've got a bit of work to do yet.”

They stare at one another once again. John is feeling... relieved. It's washing over him like a warm shower, and he's fighting the urge to giggle. “Oh.” he says. He lets the small smile crack over his face. Had he really just  _panicked_ for Sherlock's imminent departure? Was that typical best friend behaviour? No. No, not typically, he reasons. Not to the extent he nearly just had. But, he reasons further, this  _wasn't_ a typical friendship. Not even remotely. “So. You need help moving then.”

“Seems like it.”

“You've only got that Mercedes.”

“Mmm.”

“How are you gonna--”

“Mummy's proven quite  _adamant_ about making my move as simple as possible. She insisted upon a moving company. I insisted upon a truck. As you can see, I was the victor in this scenario. I can be quite persuasive.” He explains relatively quickly. 

There is a beat of silence once again. Then John speaks. “You're erm...” he trails off. It has struck him quite suddenly why Sherlock is wild eyed and untucked and manic. It is vivid and quite real before him, he realizes. Sherlock is staring. He turns quite suddenly and begins packing his box up once again. “I'm what, John. Finish your sentences, playing this  _guessing_ game is quite tiresome.” 

“You don't guess.”

“Finish your sentence.”

“You're on one right now.”

“I needed a distraction.”

“From what?”

“My mind.”

“I could've come 'round earlier.” 

“And what good would that have done?”

Another silent moment. John shifts his weight, quickly slipping his tongue over his lips. He's unsure of how to reply. He assumes, of course, that had he been around, Sherlock wouldn't have turned to it. He knows it, in fact. If Sherlock had done it in the months they'd been friends, he'd never seen it. Not until that moment, right then. “I could distract you.” John replies finally. The words come out just above a murmur. They don't have much thought behind them, not really. They just sort of come out and hang in the air, drifting up to the ceiling, swirling around their heads like gusts of wind.  _I could distract you._

Neither are sure how to reply. Sherlock has stopped moving. John is nearly sure that Sherlock has stopped breathing. A tense, vulnerable silence has filled in for the words.  _Bugger._ “Anyway, you shouldn't be doing that shit.” John says finally, his voice rasped. He clears his throat, going back to packing the boxes. “Brilliant mind like yours? Wouldn't want to waste it.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock replies. He too has begun moving once again. His actions are slow and deliberate, as though he's attempting to restart his mind on what it was he was doing exactly. John's body is unnaturally tense. Sherlock has neither confirmed nor denied John's claim.

“Only saying. As a friend. As  _your_ friend.” John continues after a moment. “Would just... hate to see you--”

“Yes, thank you John.” Sherlock interrupts. 

He doesn't speak about it again.

  


  


_I could distract you._

The words are still buzzing in John's head as he sprawls himself against his own bed. Sherlock is successfully moved into his new flat (which is—to John's delight—closer to his flat), which includes furniture being shifted and a few boxes being unpacked. John's body is exhausted, but his mind is still eating at itself.  _I could distract you._ It's reverberating in his ears and hanging on his lips. He mouths them to himself. 

_What?_

He's trying to figure out why he'd said it. Why, of all the words he could've possibly thought of, those were the ones he'd chosen. That string of words, that sentence,  _why?_ He wasn't even sure what he'd meant. He  _could_ distract Sherlock. He'd done it in the past. Had kept Sherlock straight and possibly narrow. Maybe. He thought he had anyway. He hadn't seen him in such a state since they'd met. 

_I could distract you._

Who was he kidding. It  _wasn't_ that. 

Something had been digging its way into John's head. A little idea, quiet and delicate at first, one that seemed to only be a curious nudge. An experimental thought.  _I could be in love with a man._ It was just a thought though. Something to toy with. After all, as a general speculation, he was  _straight._ He'd only ever been with women, had only ever  _fancied_ women. 

But as with all things, the longer it sits, the more familiar it gets with its habitat.

Soon, the  _could be_ dropped out, replaced itself with an  _am_ .  _I am in love with a man._ At first, it was too bizarre to cling properly. He'd push it back into the recesses of his mind, laughed it off, on occasion. Still just an imaginative speculation.  _I am in love with a man._ He imagined saying it to people, to his family, (his mum and dad had already had one child come out to them, and though at first perturbed seemed to take it well enough) to his friends, (he tried to envision Pete's reaction to him explaining it. It didn't seem to fit. He wasn't sure  _how_ Pete might react.) to women who may have—on some off chance—attempted to chat him up. Oh, it felt complex at first, a bit like a Rubik's cube freshly mixed.

That idea though, after a while? It didn't seem so unlikely.

_I am in love with Sherlock Holmes._

It started with terror. Pure, unadulterated terror. If he  _was_ going to fall in love with a bloke, would it be the one who had—on occasion—informed him that such intimacies weren't in his typical behavior? The one who had—in the six months he'd known him—never shown even the  _slightest_ interest in any sort of sexual behavior (apart from, of course, the night he'd practically attacked John. But he'd said it himself, he wasn't in his  _right mind.)?_ Of course. Of course he would. He, John Hamish Watson, who did love a good challenge. Who seemed more likely to thrive under pressure, in undesirable circumstance. Of course he would. His first time falling for a bloke would turn out to be the most difficult bloke in the world.

_I am in love with Sherlock Holmes._

It just ended up in strange fantasies after that. Well, he called them strange. Its not as though they were unfamiliar, so to speak. Moments he'd halfheartedly imagined with women. Holding hands, walking about in the park, intimate coffee dates. Limbs around waists, lips to lips, breath over skin. Only instead of some petite brunette, Sherlock stood. Sherlock chuckling under his breath as they parked themselves beneath a shade tree. Sherlock huddled over a table at coffee, his face only inches away from John's, coffee long forgotten.

Sherlock's hand in John's hand. 

Sherlock's waist in John's arms.

Sherlock's breath on John's neck. 

Sherlock's lips over John's lips. 

It was almost uncomfortable. Almost, but not quite. Not really. The discomfort of each moment would last for only a second before John would happily slide into his own fantasy role. Sherlock sprawled lazily atop his bed, all long limbs and pale skin, as far as John could see. As far as he wanted to see. His fingertips would trace each rib one-by-one, and Sherlock's back would arch beneath his touch. And Sherlock's lips would curl into a telling smirk. His eyes would be half shut, blue irises like ice below a dark sweep of lashes. 

_I am in love with Sherlock Holmes._

John swallows hard. It's no longer just an idea, he fears. No longer just a playful thought, something to consider, something to toy with on boring nights alone. It's a fact. He realizes this all too soon. He is in love with Sherlock Holmes. All those fantasies have only spurred that little idea on, have forced it to nest in his mind and cuddle in for the long haul. He knows he should've recognized the signs sooner, should've seen it coming, but it's never quite as easy as that. 

He is, though. He gets it now. The subtle churning of his stomach whenever Sherlock would get too close (which, as it happens, is frequently. Sherlock has little regard for personal space), the rapid palpitating of his heart at any little touch, (accidental nudging at the shoulders or the slip of each others fingers when handing things to one another) the ridiculously buoyant feeling he gets whenever Sherlock smiles or laughs or just  _looks_ at him certain ways.

_Oh boy._

Love. That's exactly what it is. John is in love with Sherlock. 

_I could distract you._

He could. John could distract Sherlock. He could gladly distract Sherlock, in whichever ways he saw fit. He could distract him with his hands, with his fingertips. He could distract him with his mouth, with his lips. He could distract him with his skin, all of it, every inch of it. He thinks back to that night, where he was laying on his bed in much the same fashion as he was now, when Sherlock was on top of him. He wonders what could've been had that voice—the one of denial—not stopped him in his tracks.

_I could distract you._

He lets a strange smile creep onto his lips as the words dance before him. He drops out the  _could._ He replaces it with a  _will._ He looks over the sentence, nodding subtly to himself. Yes, that's much better. It makes more sense now, now that he's sorted himself through it, through his words and actions and emotions. It makes perfect sense.

_I will distract you._

He will.

  
  


  


  
  


He keeps a toothbrush at Sherlock's place now.

Not in the way he'd like, of course. He hasn't got his own drawer in Sherlock's dresser or anything like that, but he finds himself in Sherlock's one-bedroom flat more often than he's in his own. The two men can sit in companionable silences in the sitting room, Sherlock fiddling with his microscopes while John sprawls out on the floor with textbooks and papers. He can, on occasion, look up and ask Sherlock about certain pieces of information, and Sherlock will answer in that offhanded voice he has, as though the knowledge is common place. 

He likes Sherlock's flat. Likes it better than his own. Finds himself much more relaxed. 

Tonight he's sitting on the couch, his legs drawn up beneath him, his textbook laying open in his lap. His head is resting against his fist, propped up on the arm of the couch by his elbow. The text is beginning to blur together, become lines of black smudges he can't decipher. His eyes are beginning to droop. He hasn't looked at the time it what seems like ages, but when he finally does glance to the watch on his wrist, he groans. “It's almost two in the morning.” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“Hmm?” Sherlock inquires from the table.

“You were supposed to keep track of the time.” 

Sherlock turns in his seat and looks to John. “Was I?”

“I asked you to let me know when it had struck midnight.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn't.”

“I did. I said, 'John.'”

“And that was it?”

Sherlock stares blankly. John's jaw clenches. “Right. Of course. Should've just set an alarm.” he sighs, flipping the book closed. He sets it aside and attempts to unfold his legs. They're stiff and awkward and tingling as he allows them to flop to the floor. “Are you leaving, then?” Sherlock asks. John hasn't realized that Sherlock is still watching him.

“Mmm. Probably should. Exam first thing in the morning. Need sleep.” John mumbles.

“It's a bit late.”

“S'alright.”

“Mmm, maybe not.”

John furrows his brows. Sherlock's lips curl up into that smirk that John has come to know well (and love too much). “As I recall, the last time you attempted to walk home this late, you were nearly hit by a car.” Sherlock says simply, turning back to his microscope. John can't help but laugh. “I'm not the only one to blame for that.” John replies, standing and stretching his back. “Arsehole driver wasn't paying attention.” 

“Oh, he was an arsehole, was he?”

“He was. Still is, from what I can gather.”

“And here I thought you were one of those  _forgiving_ types.”

“Forgive and never forget.” John exhales, pulling out the chair across from Sherlock and taking a seat. He stares for a moment, catching Sherlock's quick glance, then leans forward. “Could always give me a ride home.” he suggests.

“I could.”

“Can you?”

“I'd rather not.”

“Why's that?”

“Busy.”

John attempts to look at what's beneath Sherlock's lens, but the slide seems to have nothing on it. “Too busy to spare a few minutes?” he asks, craning his neck. Sherlock glances up, locking eyes with John. “Take my bed.” he says after a moment, eyes back into the microscopes lens. John's brows crease inward, watching Sherlock readjusting the focus on the slide. “Why--”

“I'll take you in the morning, John. However, at this moment I'm quite busy. I suggest you take my bed and sleep.”

“And you?”

“I won't be sleeping.”

“Why's that?”

“I don't.”

“I can take the couch, it's fine.”

“I intend on being in this spot for the rest of the evening. I assure you, take my bed.”

John glances back towards Sherlock's room. It's been two months since Sherlock's moved into the flat, and John has—on many occasions since—slept on the couch. It almost feels like crossing a line. He can't deny that he'd like to take Sherlock's bed, if for nothing more than to bury his head into Sherlock's pillows, to cuddle up beneath his comforter and  _be_ a bit of a creep at enjoying Sherlock's scent. He knows he should fight it just a little longer, but Sherlock wouldn't want to argue over a bed for very long and would soon agree to allow John the couch.

He sighs. “Alright. I'd ask you to wake me at seven, but—“

“Seven. I'll remember.”

“I'm setting an alarm either way.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Your reputation precedes you.” John replies, with a smirk. Sherlock looks up, mouth open as though to argue, but it quickly shuts at the look on John's face. “And you call  _me_ the cheeky one.” he says instead, shaking his head and sliding the slide from beneath the lens. John stands once again and pushes the chair in. “That's because you  _are_ the cheeky one. I only have moments.” he replies, bagging up his textbook and making his way toward Sherlock's room.

“Good night, John.” he hears Sherlock call.

“Night.” he replies, shutting the door behind him.

He doesn't, for some reason, expect Sherlock's room to be tidy. No, he understands why he wouldn't expect it. His dorm room had always been in a complete tip. And in truth, the sitting room was still a bit of mess—boxes that hadn't been unpacked, books hap-hazardously thrown onto shelves, papers  _everywhere—_ but Sherlock seems to have kept his room quite orderly. It's a relief.

He strips out of his shirt and trousers and sets them on top of Sherlock's dresser. He doesn't expect himself to hesitate at the side of Sherlock's bed, but he does. He stares at it for a moment, looking over the folds in the fabric, the indentation in the pillows. Sherlock doesn't often make his bed, not really, not with hospital corners and flat pillows. So John knows that the shape he sees in the sheets is Sherlock's body. He can't seem to decide whether or not he wants to disturb that shape. 

He moves to the other side of the bed, the seemingly untouched side, and pulls back the covers. He attempts to slide into the bed without disrupting Sherlock's side, moving much slower than strictly necessary to lay his head upon the pillow. The form changes only slightly, John can still see the seemingly perfect indentation of Sherlock's head in the pillow beside him. He delves into his own mind for a moment, imagining that it's not just Sherlock's form, but Sherlock's actual body beside him. It causes a smile to creep up to his lips. 

Oh  _bugger_ is he on one. John's smile falters at the thought. He knows he's in love with Sherlock, has definitely come to terms with it, but just how  _much_ he's in love with Sherlock becomes more startling as the days continue on. He's practically  _lovesick._ No, not practically. He  _is_ lovesick. Disgustingly so. Can think of nothing more than being with Sherlock day and night. He's head over heels, off the radar in love. 

_With Sherlock._

He sighs, grabbing the pillow beside him and pulling it to his chest. He shuts his eyes and inhales slowly, allowing the laundry detergent and shampoo to be sucked up. How long can he last, he wonders, before he explodes with the information? How long before Sherlock picks it up all on his own? Does he already know? Is he simply not speaking the words? Is Sherlock just as afraid of what it means as he is? Oh, who knows. His brain is beginning to melt into a puddle of too much information. All of the muscles in his body are slowly relaxing, becoming completely limp and heavy. All he needs is to take a few deep silent breaths, and he'd be asleep. So he does, and within what is probably his fifth deep breath, he's drifted off to sleep.

  


  


  


“John.” a voice calls to him. 

He doesn't move, not a muscle. He keeps his eyes shut. He recognizes the voice, a low murmur, a purr gently coming from a long, slender throat. He waits, makes some kind of affirmative sound, and then feels the bed beginning to shift beside him. The cover is lifted—he can feel the draft of the flat creep in—and then there is added body heat next to him. He still doesn't open his eyes, but he can feel the body moving closer and closer. 

“You're awake.” the voice says, much closer now, practically right before his face. John inhales, holding it in his chest for a moment before releasing it slowly. “Yes.” he replies, his voice rasped with sleep. Everything becomes still. He finally opens his eyes, and there is Sherlock. He's laying beside him, his head resting on the pillow that John has uncurled from his arms. It's still quite close, and Sherlock doesn't seem to have moved it. “Did I wake you?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Yes.” John replies.

“You fell asleep quickly.”

“Exhausted.”

They stare at one another. John is certain he's asleep still, that he's dreaming. It's a pleasant dream. He likes when he dreams of Sherlock, when they're in these domestic scenarios. He accepts its a dream. There's nothing wrong with dreaming, and what he does in his dreams are fine and dandy. He shuts his eyes once again. “Did you need me?” John asks, moving his arm to Sherlock's waist. It's bare, he realizes, as his fingers slide back to Sherlock's spine. 

“I had a thought and I felt I should speak to you about it.”

“Couldn't wait 'til morning, I presume?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.”

Sherlock's face moves closer. He can practically feel Sherlock's breath on his face as he speaks. “I think I might be...” Sherlock begins quietly. He trails off and John waits, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's breathing. They are silent, completely. John is keeping his eyes closed. Everything feels warm and a bit blissful. He coils his arm further around Sherlock, pulling him just a little closer. Sherlock exhales quietly. “I think I might be in... in love.” he says finally. 

John can't help the smirk that curls at the corners of his mouth. “Oh?” he asks.

“Yes. I'm not entirely certain, however. I understand the chemistry, the physiology even, but the emotional reaction seems to be a bit hazy.” 

“What are your symptoms?” John asks lazily. 

“Elation. Desperation. Terror. Lust.” 

“Sounds like you've got a nasty case of  _love_ indeed, Mr. Holmes.”

“As I feared.”

There is another silence. John pulls him closer, until he can feel Sherlock's skin against his own. Their thighs are pressed together, as well as their stomachs. John can feel a lazy smile on his lips, and he keeps his eyes closed. He feels Sherlock's hesitant hand as it runs down John's arm, feeling its way down to his elbow. “I fear asking who the lucky person is.” John says finally. “You may break my heart.” 

“Would I?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“You might. But I'll ask anyway. Who is it that you're in love with?” 

“Thought it might be obvious.”

“Should it be?”

“It wasn't supposed to be. I suppose it could be now.”

Another silence. John is still smiling. Oh, how kind his dreams are to him. “Should I suppose, Mr. Holmes, that it's me?” he asks coolly. He feels Sherlock's body tense slightly against him. The fingertips that had been idly running over his arm stop mid-track. Sherlock's breathing has ceased against his face. John opens his eyes, and Sherlock is watching him. His eyes are traveling all over John's face, from the corner of each eye to the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks and down to his lips. “Is that news to you?” Sherlock asks finally.

John exhales, “No. No, it's not. Just as, I'm sure, my being in love with you isn't news to you.” he murmurs, fixing to move his head forward. Sherlock's body seems to relax, each tense muscle untwisting at the words spoken. A smile curls up to the corner of his mouth. “It is, but I suppose if ever there was a moment to pretend I knew, this would be it.”

“Here I was, thinking I'd been obvious.”

“It doesn't do to make assumptions without gathering data.”

John's fingertips walk up Sherlock's spine, resting just between his shoulder blades. He doesn't speak as he pushes his head forward and touches his lips to Sherlock's. They both close their eyes and John presses his lips harder into Sherlock's, the nerves in his body standing on alert. Sherlock's hand moves to the back of John's head, and suddenly the gentle brushing of their lips is a full-blown kiss. There's nothing hard or needy about it. In fact, it's quite lazy. John's still feeling fuzzy with sleep, and Sherlock seems to have no qualms with the slow, languid movements of their lips. 

John reaches his hand up and strokes the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's hand is sliding down the back of John's neck, the sensation of nothing more than fingertips tickling John's spine. His back arches instinctively, pressing closer to Sherlock. He can feel Sherlock smile against his lips. 

John feels like he's floating. He feels like his head could detach at any moment and drift off like a balloon. It's a surprisingly pleasant feeling, he thinks, as Sherlock's tongue finds its way against his own. A beautiful high that John could get used to, if Sherlock allowed it. This kiss, this long-lasting, perfect kiss is peaceful. He imagines it settling his nerves over his exam, over life decisions, over the world. He imagines he could spend the rest of his days laying in bed, kissing slow and warm and sleepy, with Sherlock. 

The kiss slows further still with time. It becomes lazier, until they've all but stopped moving. Sherlock's lips are simply touching John's, the tip of his nose against John's cheek. John presses a simple kiss, and Sherlock reciprocates. Their breathing is slow and even. They're both beginning to drift off to sleep. 

“So you love me.” Sherlock states in a sleepy murmur. John can feel the way Sherlock's lips move around each word. He likes the way it feels.

“Yes.” John replies just as quiet. “And you love me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock answers.

John can't seem to think of anything more to say before he drifts off once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	6. Six

 His alarm is intrusive as seven that morning hits his watch. He groans quietly, unable to open his eyes. He's still exhausted. His muscles are still aching to be unused and his mind is feeling a bit mushy, and he'd been having such a  _nice_ dream that he's tempted to skip off the exam and tell his professor he'd been in some sort of accident. 

He refuses to open his eyes. It seems like such a tiresome thing to do after the more-than-fantastic dream he'd had. Sherlock in bed, Sherlock in his arms, Sherlock confessing his love, and that kiss... John thinks of that kiss, all slow heat, and he can nearly feel it on his lips. It had been too perfect, John thinks. It had felt too real and yet too unreal. It had been conflicting and lovely and sad and beautiful. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He wants to go back and relive that dream once again, and have Sherlock in his arms and on his lips and murmuring confessions into his mouth. He groans once again and rubs the heel of his hands into his eyes. “Wonder if he'd let me retake it.” he mumbles to himself.

He doesn't expect the reply that comes from his right, “I'm sure we can think of an excuse for you to miss it.”

His hands lift off his eyes quickly. They snap open and turn to meet the voice. It's Sherlock. He's in bed. His eyes are closed, his hair is mussed, he's beneath the covers, and he's moving closer to John's side. Sherlock's hand curls around John's arm and he finally opens his eyes, to meet John's surprised face. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow. “Problem?” he asks.

_It wasn't a dream._ John's jaw hangs slack for a moment, his lips parting only slightly as he stares.  _It wasn't a dream._ It's the only thing his head seems to be saying upon looking at Sherlock beside him.  _It wasn't a dream._ Sherlock really had come to bed last night. John really had held him close with all the confidence of a man who knew. They really had a flirtatious banter and Sherlock really  _had_ told him he loved him. No, John had said it. He'd said Sherlock loved him. And Sherlock had agreed.  _Oh._ “It wasn't a dream.” his mouth says without his consent.

Sherlock's face contorts in confusion. “Pardon?”

He didn't mean to say it out loud, but now that the words are out, he repeats them. “It wasn't a dream.”

“What wasn't a dream?”

“Last night. I mean, this morning. You—“

“Oh. Yes. That.” Sherlock interrupts. John is fascinated by the small tint of pink that is creeping into Sherlock's cheeks. He can't help the small smile that comes to his mouth. “It wasn't a dream then. I really didn't just conjure it up in my head.”

“Is that the type of thing that you would normally dream of?” Sherlock asks.

John's face goes hot. “Maybe.”

“It wasn't a dream.” Sherlock confirms quietly.

John searches Sherlock's face for a moment. Sherlock's eyes aren't focused in any one spot. They seem to be roving everywhere but John's face. He's a little embarrassed. John can see this. He isn't used to having such moments. John can also see this. A swell of pride fills up in his chest and he carefully grabs hold of Sherlock's hand. He places it, palm down, against his lips. He closes his eyes as he brushes his lips over the skin of Sherlock's hand. He exhales. “It wasn't a dream.” he murmurs. 

“No.”

“So then,” he presses a kiss to Sherlock's palm, “You're in love with me.”

“It seems as much.”

John smiles and presses another kiss into Sherlock's palm. “And then, of course, you know that I'm in love with you.”

“That was a nice revelation to come into.”

They fall silent. John is keeping Sherlock's hand against his mouth, pressing gentle kisses to the heel of his hand, to the center of his palm, tracing the lines with his mouth and extending out over his thumb. He looks to Sherlock once again, and Sherlock is smiling. It's warm and tender and much more genuine than any of the smiles John had ever witnessed on Sherlock's face. It makes him smile. “I didn't actually know, you know.” John confesses. He recalls the confidence of his voice as he stated something like “ _I suppose I should assume it's me._ ”

“No?” Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head, his lips brushing Sherlock's palm. “No clue. Thought I was dreaming. Guess my dream self is pretty cocky.”

“You didn't know?”

“Didn't think you would. Thought you wouldn't be interested. Thought I'd buggered up any chance I had.” He ends each sentence with another kiss. Sherlock takes control of his hand, sliding it away from John's mouth, cupping John's face. His thumb glides delicately over John's cheek. “Denial is a useless emotion, isn't it?” Sherlock asks, watching his own fingers as they seem to trace the details of John's features. John can't think of a reply. He simply watches Sherlock studying him. “On occasion, I've come to feel most emotions are terribly useless. Anger can be useful, if used in an effective manner.” he continues. John still says nothing. “The adrenaline spikes that accompany some emotions can be very useful. Emotions in general, however, are predominantly unhelpful.”

“Do you find happiness useless?” John asks.

Sherlock exhales through his nose, still watching his fingertips as they make their way over John's jaw and down his neck. “Happiness varies in degree, and therefore varies in it's ability to be useful. Contentment is quite useless. I hope to never be contented by anything.” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock Holmes? Merely  _contented_ with something? I can't imagine.” John murmurs.

“Neither can I. Bliss can be quite useful.”

“You think?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Have you ever been blissful?”

“Artificially so. Naturally, I can't be sure.”

“Ah. Your  _distractions_ .”

“Mmm. My  _distractions_ .”

“I could distract you.”

Sherlock's fingertips have traveled down into the dip of John's clavicle. They're feeling out the bones and skin and muscle. John's watching his face still, watching the smooth skin of his cheeks and forehead, watching his mouth. He means the words this time, has thought them through very carefully and knows exactly how he would keep Sherlock distracted. Sherlock sighs quietly. “You could.” he states. It startles John momentarily that Sherlock doesn't protest. More so that Sherlock agrees so easily. “You do realize, however, that it could lead to further problems.” he continues.

“How so?” John inquires.

“You could become just as necessary to me.”

“That's my intention.”

“You  _believe_ it to be your intention. Not in the sense I'm speaking of.”

John's brows furrow. “I think I know what my intention is, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's lips curl into a half-smile and he finally looks back to John's eyes. “I'm merely being honest. I know myself well, John. I know that—as a general speculation—I have an addictive persona. If I lose one, I gain another. I don't know if you realize what you could become.” He lets his eyes fall back to his hand. John shakes his head minutely, allowing a breathy laugh to escape him. “I will become whatever you allow me to be, Sherlock.”

“That's a horrible decision.”

“And yet, here I am, making it.”

“I fear you're too confident in that decision.”

“I fear you're too confident that you're some sort of monster.”

Sherlock laughs, and it's much brighter than the tone of the conversation should allow. “Isn't that the general stereotype of a sociopath?” he asks. John rolls his eyes and tips Sherlock's chin upward. “You are by no means a monster. Nor are you a  _real_ sociopath. So please feel free to bugger both thoughts thoroughly.” He states, tone very matter-of-fact. He forces Sherlock to look at him, though the flash of Sherlock's eyes cause a familiar stirring in his stomach. Sherlock's lips are plastered with that smirk,  _that smirk_ that John has often accidentally fantasized about. John cannot help himself, not remotely. Not that he wants to try anyway, but he couldn't if he wanted. He presses his lips to Sherlock's, his hand slipping from beneath his chin to the back of his neck. 

Sherlock kisses back with vigor, and John can feel excitement beginning to stir readily in his hips. It crosses his mind, of course, that he's never been with a man before. He isn't quite sure what to do or where to start or what the boundaries really are. He's also not sure if Sherlock's ever been with a man. Or if Sherlock's been with anyone, for that matter. But, and he realizes this just as the previous thought leaves his mind, if Sherlock  _wasn't_ interested, didn't feel comfortable, what-have-you, he'd most certainly protest.

So John pushes forward.

He slides his hand down Sherlock's side, slipping it around to rest at the small of his back. Sherlock's hand is grasping at the back of John's neck, crushing their mouths together aggressively. He's taking hold of John's bottom lip with his teeth, nibbling delicately, allowing his tongue to make gentle, subtle sweeps over them. John doesn't expect his body to have such a reaction to something so  _simple,_ but he notes that it most  _definitely_ does. He finds himself releasing a quiet, near animal growl as he pushes Sherlock onto his back and slides his body on top, resting between his thighs.

_Oh._ Sherlock's body is just as responsive as John's, it seems. He can feel it pressing against his hip and it's such a thrilling feeling that he can't even concern himself with his inexperience. 

Sherlock breaks his lips away from John's, nuzzling into his neck. His hands trail down John's back, sliding smoothly over John's pants and grasping hold of his arse. His lips are pressing open mouthed kisses over John's throat, teasingly nipping at him. John can't help the roll of his hips against Sherlock's, can barely hold in the groan that forces its way into John's mouth. It comes out in something closer to a grunt, one which he accompanies with a second roll of his hips. 

“Tell me, John.” Sherlock murmurs against John's neck. “I don't believe you've ever been with a man. Am I correct?” 

“Snogged my mate once on a dare from a girl I fancied. That count?” John replies, voice husky. He dips his head in to meet Sherlock's, forcing hungry, needy kisses to the full, shapely lips before him. Sherlock chuckles. His body seems to roll beneath him, shifting for comfort, but the movement touches and rubs them both in exhilarating ways neither expects. They find themselves gasping at the sensation, at the friction in their hips. Sherlock squeezes, pushing John's hips harder against his. “Not quite what I was imagining...” He says into John's mouth.

“You wanna know,” John says between kisses, “If I've ever buggered a bloke.” 

“In so many words.” Sherlock's got that smirk again. John wants to wipe it off his face in the best way possible. He rolls his hips against Sherlock's once again, feels them press and rub together once again, and watches as Sherlock's face contorts, flickering from shock to desire to that tell-tale smirk once again. The corner of Johns mouth draws upward. “Can't say I have.” he replies, bowing into Sherlock's neck. He runs the tip of his tongue up, from Sherlock's collar all the way to his ear, “But I'm a quick study.” he growls.

Sherlock doesn't even fight against the shiver that runs up his spine, allows the quivering of his body to be felt. His hands fumble only momentarily as he grabs the top of John's pants, slipping his thumbs beneath the waistband. “Lift.” he commands quietly. John obeys, forcing himself upright enough for Sherlock to push the waistband down his thighs. John's watching Sherlock's face. Sherlock is watching John's pelvis. His eyebrow quirks and the corner of his mouth lifts quickly. John can't help the small smirk that crosses his lips. 

He wraps a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, then lifts himself to his knees. He brings Sherlock up with him. Their lips meet once again, slow but aggressive. “Same question.” John states into Sherlock mouth. Sherlock's hands grip John's bare arse and he tugs John's bottom lip with his teeth. “You'd like to know if I've ever  _buggered a bloke_ before.” Sherlock mutters. Oh,  _oh_ Sherlock's voice. He doesn't expect that. It's certainly welcome. 

John grins, “Yeah. Go on.”

Sherlock allows his hands to work up John's back. They slide around to his chest and slowly work downward. “I have.” he confesses, voice still a murmur. One hand stops at his hip, grasping hold possessively. The other slides down further, and he smiles as he wraps his fingers around John.  _Oh God._ “Have you?” John's voice cracks around the words as Sherlock strokes him. 

“Yes.”

“And...  _oh.”_ John swallows, attempting to recollect himself enough to speak. It's not his first time. He shouldn't be so  _easy_ , but beneath Sherlock's slender fingers, he can't seem to focus. “And how did you—“

“How'd I like it? I have to confess that—in those circumstances—it was purely analytical. For me, at any rate.” Sherlock interrupts. John knows the words coming from Sherlock's mouth aren't particularly sexy, but the way he purrs seems to thrill him either way. “And you... you've been...” John can't seem to finish a single sentence. He's lucky, then, that Sherlock can easily read what he's asking. “Yes. Both genders. Rather obvious which of the two I preferred.” He leans forward and presses an open mouth kiss to John's skin, leaving the spot warm and slick as he moves back. 

“I—“

“Something tells me that your next question you haven't quite figured out how to ask.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly. He brings his hand to his mouth, and John is too distracted to watch. He's almost  _thankful_ for a moment of reprieve, to allow him to gather his wits. When Sherlock grabs him once again, however, his hand is slick and the moment of reprieve is gone. “The answer, of course, is  _both._ I had to gather all the data I possibly could about said experience while the opportunity had presented itself.” 

“You sure you don't read minds?” John breathes.

“Standard questioning, I assumed.”

“Didn't mean that, but feel free to keep talking.” 

Sherlock chuckles low in his throat, and even  _that_ seems to ooze sex. John can't for the life of him understand how the opportunities didn't present themselves more often. John grabs Sherlock's hand quickly, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath. “I'm gonna need you to stop that.” he mutters.

“Oh?”

“It's still early, I'll need to take it slow.”

“I see.” Sherlock replies. He readjusts, standing up before John on his knees as well. He wets his lips before he speaks again. “Would you like to know which position I preferred?” he asks quietly, slipping his thumbs beneath the waistband of his pants. John takes a deep breath, puffing his cheeks as he exhales. He shifts Sherlock's hands and replaces them with his own, gliding his hands beneath the waistband. He pulls it outward on both sides. He shifts the waistband down. “Might be useful information.” he replies finally, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

Sherlock's gaze is  _hungry._ John's hand is trembling just slightly as he brings it back around to Sherlock's front. With a small tremor of hesitation, he takes hold of Sherlock. He can feel the tension in his palm, can feel Sherlock's entire body tighten. Sherlock's lips are parted. His eyes are shut. John is carefully stroking Sherlock. He's testing the waters. “Go on.” he prompts.

“I... Mmm.” Sherlock swallows. His tongue slides over his lips and he opens his eyes. He swallows again, “I found both top and bottom to be physically pleasing though I also found it may depend upon the partner and my particular taste for the moment.” He says quickly. He shuts his eyes once again and he releases a slow breath. John quirks an eyebrow. “For me?” he murmurs, moving his hands to Sherlock's hips. He pulls him forward, electricity surging through them as they touch. Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead, he grabs John's face and crushes their lips together. 

There is an awkward moment of fumbling in which the both of them make to strip off their pants properly, but it's fleeting and soon enough Sherlock is taking control. He pushes John backward and crawls on top of him, slotting his body perfectly against John's. “To answer your question.” he states finally, teeth trailing against John's jaw, “Either.” He drags his tongue in the shell of John's ear and whispers, “Whichever way you'd have me.” 

“Oh, don't say that.” John replies with a pleased groan, “I'd have you in every way I could. And maybe a few I couldn't.” 

“Interesting. Could be a useful addition to previous data.” His hand slips between them and he grabs hold of John once again. John inhales sharply. “Just another statistic to a study, am I?” he asks, watching the dark head make its way down his neck. Sherlock hums against John's throat. “I'll be sure to compensate you for your time and travel.” he murmurs. 

“Cheeky bastard.” John mumbles with a chuckle.

Sherlock doesn't reply, simply continues trailing down John's body with sweeps of his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth. John watches. John hides his eyes. He watches more. He can't watch more. He's at a precipice, one which he can easily be thrown over with too much stimulation. And it's absolutely  _terrible._ Just the visual of Sherlock's curly mop of hair moving over John's stomach is causing entirely too much pleasure. He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and swallowing. He is not eighteen. This is not his first time getting off with someone. He does not come from one or two nicely executed tugs. He is not a teenager, he is an adult and his sexual prowess is much more tuned than his sixteen year old self.

And then Sherlock's mouth is against his hips. His body reacts involuntarily, arching upward toward Sherlock. He hisses as he grabs Sherlock's head gently, pulling it away from his body. “Wait, wait, wait.” he mumbles quickly. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he can feel Sherlock gazing at him. “I just. I. I need a minute.” he grumbles with a sigh. He doesn't  _have_ to open his eyes to know that Sherlock is smirking. “Don't give me that look.” he says.

“What look? I'm not giving a look.”

“You're smirking.”

“Am I?”

John opens his eyes to glance at Sherlock.  _Of course_ he's smirking. He shuts his eyes again quickly. Even  _that_ seems to be having too profound an effect on his arousal. He takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. He feels Sherlock shifting, can feel Sherlock's sides resting between his thighs. His hand, those fingers, are tip-toeing over his hips, fingertips grazing along the bone. “I have to confess, John. I'm not a patient man.” he murmurs, allowing his nail to scrape against the skin. 

John shivers, hips pressing into the mattress. “You say this as if it's something I haven't learned.”

“And yet you insist upon me waiting. How very counterproductive.”

“Exercise in self-control.”

“For you or me?” 

“Both.”

“I've exercised it long enough.” Sherlock replies. John's body jolts as Sherlock's hand wraps around the base of him. He can't watch,  _oh God_ he can't even fathom watching as he feels Sherlock's tongue flick against him. If he watches, he will be done. “Sherlock, I'm not gonna la—“

“Good. Then don't.”

John swallows, grabbing hold of the pillow under his head. He takes a deep breath,  _desperately_ attempting to hold out. Sherlock's tongue is sliding up the length of him. He's pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses against him. John feels almost back in control of his body,  _almost_ confident that he'll be able to enjoy Sherlock's teasing licks a little longer. But Sherlock is impatient, truly, in every sense of the word. John has seen his impatience on more than one occasion. Sherlock wraps his lips around him and gives a gentle flick of his tongue. John's hips twitch involuntarily. He can't resist the moan that escapes his throat, forces it through clenched teeth. “ _Jesus.”_ he groans, feeling Sherlock's hands upon his hips as his mouth slides down the length of him. It's thoroughly  _embarrassing_ that John is, at any moment, going to come. He can feel the heat in his face but Sherlock's tongue is moving in absolutely deadly ways and John... he  _can't_ hold back anymore.

“ _Shi—_ Sherlock I'm right—“

John takes this moment to finally glance down at Sherlock. The bobbing of dark hair greets him, the all-too familiar lips pornographic. He looks up from beneath his lashes, gives a single, perfectly pressured stroke, aligning it  _just right_ with the movement of his mouth. And that is it. John can no longer contain himself. His breathing is erratic, his eyes squeeze shut, his hands dive into Sherlock's hair and every single sensation around him is throbbing against his skin. He cries out, and his body is completely out of his control for a moment.

Everything is silent. His hands are still tangled in Sherlock's hair. He's taking deep breaths. His arms are moving suddenly, fingers wrapped around his wrists and shifting to place his hands elsewhere.  _Ah. On Sherlock's back._ Sherlock is making his way back up to John. 

John finally opens his eyes to find Sherlock above him. He knows he's got a silly smile on his face, but not because he's purposely made it or can even  _feel_ it. It's because Sherlock is smiling. “God John, you weren't even a  _challenge.”_ Sherlock murmurs playfully. John rolls his eyes, but the smile remains. “Oi. First thing in the morning? I can't be held responsible.” 

“Wasn't first thing.”

“Might as well have been. Besides, loads of pent up frustration.”

“Oh?”

“Oh go on, you know as well as I do wanking isn't the same.”

Sherlock smirks. “I can't claim I do, if we're to be honest. Though in my defense, past experiences haven't been nearly as satisfying as the average statistic claims they should be.” he explains loftily. John remembers quite suddenly that Sherlock is still fully erect, and it's as though the moment he remembers, he feels it against him. His body feels like a gelatin. Moving seems almost futile. But he musters up some movement enough to slip his hand between them. “I'll be taking that as a challenge.” John says with an easy smile. His fingers wrap around Sherlock and he gives a gentle tug. 

He can see Sherlock's throat move when he swallows at the touch. “You think you'll be successful?” Sherlock asks. John can't help the grin that spreads. Sherlock is attempting to be cheeky, though his body is most certainly betraying him. John brings his hand up from between them and cups it before Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's brows furrow. John, for the first time he can recall, gives Sherlock a knowing look. “Go on.” John commands.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

John rolls his eyes, “Don't play stupid. It's  _unbecoming_ of you. Now  _spit_ .” he growls.

Sherlock hesitates, glancing between John's face and hand a few times. John's face goes serious. “It's not a request.” he states. Sherlock swallows before finally dipping his mouth toward John's hand. He makes sure to cover the sight from John by placing his hand up as a wall. John finds it strangely endearing. He feels the drip fall into his hand and smirks. “That's a good lad.” he mutters, carefully slipping the hand between them once again and grabbing hold of Sherlock.

_“Oh_ Christ.” Sherlock mutters. John has slicked him completely, is giving long, hard strokes. He's watching Sherlock's face, studying each half smile, each lip bite, each quirk of his eyebrows. His face, normally all cool indifference, is  _quite_ expressive when need be. John cups his free hand beside Sherlock's mouth, “Spit.” he commands again. Sherlock doesn't hesitate this time, does as demanded before John has time to finish the simple word. And then that hand makes it way to Sherlock as well. “Good  _God_ .” Sherlock breathes.

“Close?” John murmurs.

Sherlock nods.

John can feel Sherlock's hips shifting, rocking slowly into John's hands. He's surprised at how  _little_ he's felt unsure of himself. Never having gotten off with a man before, he feels he's doing pretty well. The secret, he supposes, is to think of what he himself would like. At least, it's where he vows to start from here on in. He can feel Sherlock's impending orgasm before Sherlock manages to sputter his warning. Sherlock bows his head into John's neck, breathing erratic, hips moving in long strokes. John is only slightly startled to feel the hot liquid drop onto his belly. 

He is surprised to find that he's panting as well, nearly mimicking Sherlock's ragged breaths. He releases his hold on Sherlock, wiping his hands upon the sheets before bringing them up to his shoulders. “Alright?” John murmurs. 

Sherlock laughs into his neck, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. He moves, carefully shifting around John's legs to step off the bed. John watches him leave the room, then looks down to his stomach. Just above his belly button, he's glistening. It's a bizarre feeling, knowing what the liquid he's looking at is, and yet... His brows furrow. He looks up to the ceiling. He's losing himself in thought, of sex and Sherlock and what's just happened and what it means. He's not entirely certain. What he is certain of is that he is in love with Sherlock. And Sherlock is in love with him. And he's  _definitely_ just missed an exam to get off. 

Sherlock returns with a towel, which—John finds—is damp. He's gently wiping John's stomach clean. “You missed your exam.” he states, balling up the towel and tossing it gingerly toward his dirty laundry. John sighs, nodding. “Worth it, I'm afraid.” 

“Was it?” Sherlock asks, spreading out beside beside him. 

“Mmm yes.” John replies, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside. “After all, I accomplished my mission, I believe.” 

Sherlock turns, “Mission.”

“Yes. You thought I wouldn't be able to get you off. And I did.” John has a smug grin on his face. He shuts his eyes, dropping Sherlock's hand upon his chest and resting his behind his head. Sherlock makes a noise, something like a snort, and John frowns. He turns to find Sherlock with that  _god damned_ smirk on his face. “That wasn't the mission, Mr. Watson.” Sherlock says to his confusion.

“No?”

“No, no. The mission, sir, was to make  _this_ experience more satisfying than my previous ones.” 

They stare at one another. John's brows are still furrowed. Sherlock's smirk is still very set. “Are you telling me I  _failed_ then?” John asks incredulously. His jaw is beginning to drop, but Sherlock's fingers make their way to John's chin, and he shuts his mouth. “Before you begin, allow me to confirm that your mission  _was_ successfully completed and that I was merely correcting your statement.”

John relaxes. “Twat.” he murmurs, smirking.

“ _Moi? Non.”_ Sherlock retorts with mock innocence.

“Yeah, you. Couldn't resist, could you? Couldn't let me have one moment—“ John starts in a mock huff. But Sherlock silences him with his lips and tongue and John can't possibly be more pleased to have someone shut him up. 

  
  


*

  
  


  
  


John sets his cup of tea before him at his desk, then takes the seat across from him. It's nearly noon, and the both of them have just woken up. He can't help staring at Sherlock. He's not sure he's ever seen him look quite so  _relaxed._ His hair is completely mussed, a puff of dark curls running wild a top his head. His eyes are clear and bright. Everything about him looks  _warm_ , and it takes John some self-restraint not to wrap him up in a hug he can't escape from.

He shifts in his seat and takes a sip from his cup. It stops him from doing just that. 

Sherlock shuts the paper he's reading and grabs up his mug, then looks to John. He takes a slow sip. “I know what you're thinking.” he says as it sets his cup down. John stares. There's no way that Sherlock can actually know, but he wonders if something in the tension in his body gives him away. “You're pondering how this effects our relationship and how to proceed.” Sherlock continues. The corner of John's mouth twitches upward. It  _is_ what he's wondering, but it's not what he's thinking at that moment. He doesn't bother to correct him. “Right.” he replies instead.

“I believe most of those questions are for you to answer.”

“How do you mean?”

Sherlock takes another sip from his tea, then leans forward. “Well, until—perhaps—three o'clock this morning, you strictly identified as heterosexual. Therefore, how to publicly proceed with you being  _romantically attached_ to a man is better left to your devices.” he explains. His hands fold before him on the table and he keeps his eyes attached to John's. “Unless, of course, you have other options in mind.”

“You make this sound like a business meeting.” John replies into his mug.

“Isn't it?”

They stare at one another for a long minute. John purses his lips momentarily. “Shall we write up a contract as well?” he asks teasingly. Sherlock rolls his eyes, opening the paper once again. “I'm merely attempting to be  _helpful,_ John. I'd like to note how I'm to proceed with our relationship.” he says simply, eyes scanning the text. John takes a deep breath. Sherlock has a point, of course. It's the same point he's been thinking since he'd realized he was in love with Sherlock. He's split down the middle. He wants, of course, to do nothing more than flaunt Sherlock. Wants to hold his hand and sneak kisses in queues and wrap him up in his arms whenever he sees fit. 

_But_ he's straight. Semi? He's not sure. He's never  _felt_ about a man the way he feels about Sherlock. 

“I don't know.” he says finally.

“As I thought.” Sherlock replies easily.

John feels his face grow hot. He shifts in his chair and clears his throat. It somehow  _bothers_ John that Sherlock can know how conflicted John would be. He shouldn't be conflicted. He should be able to simply say  _Sod it._ It should be an easy decision. Hell, it shouldn't even be a decision. He shifts in his seat again. Sherlock is reading the paper quite simply. “As you thought.” John mutters. There's a slight edge to his voice. He hopes that Sherlock has somehow missed it.

Sherlock looks up. He hasn't missed it.

“Yes. Obviously.” he replies. “Indecision is common in such situations.” 

“Have you seen many people go through this situation?” John says with a frown. He crosses his arms over his chest and takes a deep breath. He can't seem to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock frowns in return. “You're upset.” he says.

“A bit.” John retorts. He shifts again. He doesn't like the feeling that has come over him. It's guilt predominantly. He doesn't want to admit feeling  _guilty_ . It causes his body to verge on something close to a temper tantrum. And he  _definitely_ doesn't like that. He uncrosses his arms and wraps his hands around his mug. Sherlock is still watching him. “What's wrong?” he asks.

John sighs. He leans forward and cups his forehead in his hands. He feels twenty years older quite suddenly. “Me.” he mutters.

“Are you?” 

“Of course. You know I am.”

“I don't.”

He finally peeks at Sherlock. Concern is delicately etched into his features. He still looks warm and John is still very tempted to wrap him up and never let him go. A quick smile crosses his lips, but it falls just as soon. “This shouldn't be an issue. Not even remotely.” he says. He clasps his hands together and presses his fists to his mouth. “But here I am, wondering if Pete's going to forever refer to me as  _that poofter what used to be his mate.”_

“I'm content with keeping the intimacies of our relationship inside these walls, John.”

John narrows his eyes. “Says the man who'd prefer to never be contented in his life.” 

Sherlock sighs and shuts the newspaper once again. He looks to John and his face is completely exasperated. The look makes John want to hug him even more. “I'm not going to dictate the way our affections are displayed. Assuming you'd even like to proceed with an actual  _relationship_ with me.” he says. “Obviously, we don't have to commit to one another. We can remain friends.” 

John shakes his head, “That's not an option.”

“Then what would you like to do, John?” 

“I don't know.”

“We're speaking in circles now.”

John sighs and stands. He's giving up the resistance his mind is putting up. He crosses the few feet to where Sherlock sits. Sherlock is turning in his seat just as John wraps his arms around him. He buries his face in Sherlock's mess of curls. It feels nice. He can feel Sherlock sigh as he settles his hands on the small of John's back. “John, if you're not ready to—“

“No, stop.” John mumbles.

“You have to be realistic.”

“I'm being realistic.”

“You aren't.”

John sighs as lifts his head. He looks down to Sherlock, who is already peering up at him. They lock eyes. “All I want is to treat you just like I would any  _girlfriend_ I ended up with.” John tells him. “I wanna buy you coffee and sneak kisses in the queue and be a bit  _nauseating_ to everyone around us.” 

Sherlock smirks, “You've nauseated  _me_ a bit.”

John rolls his eyes, “You'd rather I'd say I wanna shag you into the mattress.”

“No need to state the obvious.”

“Cheeky bugger.”

“What do you want to do, John?” 

John searches Sherlock's face for a moment. It's a non-issue, he knows this. He wants to be with Sherlock. Sherlock wants to be with him. The logical answer to the dilemma is simple:  _be with him._ He supposes that if people judge him for it then... well, it's  _their_ problem, isn't it? “Bit obvious, don't you think?” he asks finally.

Sherlock's brows furrow. “I can't say it is.”

“Well, you  _are_ a bit slow. It's alright, let me walk you through it.” John says with a smirk. Sherlock scowls but stays quiet as John runs his hands through his curls. “Fact is, I... well, I'm fairly certain that I'm in love with an arrogant sod named Sherlock Holmes.” he starts, “Which means that—if he'd be willing to have me, of course—I'd like nothing more than to put on that crap possessive lover bit and call him 'mine.' Sounds a bit cheesy. It is a bit cheesy.” He gently grabs hold of Sherlock's hair, “But what can I say? Heart want what it wants.”

Sherlock has a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “You and this  _arrogant sod_ ... queuing up for crap films, sitting beside each other in coffee shops...”

“...Candle-lit dinners, snogging in the library...”

“...Exchanging romantic gifts on Christmas...”

“...And all those tiny displays of affection..”

“...Interlacing fingers, the  _nearly-too-possessive_ hand always resting on the back...”

“...All of it.” John says finally. He's smiling as he runs his hand down the back of Sherlock's head. He rests them upon his neck. “Good, bad, mediocre. Anything that might be between those bits.” Sherlock is smiling too, a lovely lazy smile that suits him. He rests his chin against John and wraps his arms around him tighter. “Are you being realistic?” he asks.

“I'm getting about as realistic as I'm going to in this scenario so you may as well give up arguing.”

“I wasn't going to argue.”

“Yes you were.”

Both smiles widen into grins. John takes a step back, pulling Sherlock with him. “Now I'm gonna need you to come here. As it happens, I need a proper snogging and I know of the perfect person to assist me.”

“That arrogant sod Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock replies with a quirked eyebrow, standing. John grabs him around the waist, gripping hold of the t-shirt he wears as a smirks comes to John's lips. He pulls the both of them toward the couch. “He may be an arrogant sod,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss to the base of Sherlock's neck, “But I've come to be quite fond of his mouth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the use of the "mature" rating comes in.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	7. Seven

“So... is this your idea of a _date?”_

John eyes the path they're taking. He's trying, with little success, to figure out  _where_ exactly it is Sherlock is leading him. He's trying to think of any restaurants, any pubs, any place that might be appropriate for a date. Then he laughs at himself. This is  _Sherlock._ Anything typical can be instantly slid off the table. Where would  _Sherlock_ take someone for a date? He can't even begin to imagine. Sherlock shoots a glance at him and turns down a back alley. “Date? No, our first stop isn't part of our _date,_ John.” he replies. John doesn't hesitate following him, although it does make him nervous. John frowns. Sherlock is striding, taking long legged steps that John can't keep up with unless he jogs. He grabs hold of the back of Sherlock's coat, just at the small of his back. “What are we doing then?”

It doesn't stop Sherlock. “Making a small detour.” 

“A detour?”

“We won't hang about for too long. Won't be able to.”

John's frown deepens slightly. He's still clutching the fabric of Sherlock's coat. 

After another turn down another alley, John can see lights around Sherlock's silhouette. White, nearly blue. Flashing. “Sherlock, what are we—“

Sherlock stops quite suddenly, turning to place a finger over John's mouth. His face is dark, but John knows he's quite pleased about something. “Now, you'll need to be quiet. Just for a moment.” Sherlock's voice says.

“Okay, but what—“

“You asked to come along. Now, admittedly, this isn't a case I'm on. But if I play my—“

“Wait, wait, wait.” John holds up his hand, interrupting Sherlock's thought. “Where are we?” 

“Crime scene.” 

“We're at an  _actual_ crime scene right now?”

His eyes are beginning to adjust to the strange lighting. He can see Sherlock's grin. It almost makes him nervous. Sherlock drops his hand to John's and gives it a small squeeze. “You asked to see what I do. This isn't it, not entirely, however a case I'm working on has lead me here.” he explains. John looks befuddled. Sherlock can see this. He gives John's hand another gentle squeeze. John's brows furrow, “You're working on a case?”

“Small one. Nothing too interesting.”

“And it's lead you to an  _actual_ crime scene.”

“Victim was involved.”

John stares. “And you need—“

“I need to do a quick walk about the perimeter. Obviously I don't have access into the scene itself but one can learn a lot from looking in the right places.” Sherlock rattles off in a low voice. John isn't sure how to reply, but his mouth is opening and he knows he's going to protest somehow. Sherlock doesn't allow it, presses a quick, hard kiss to his lips. “Stay behind if you'd like. I'll only be a moment.” he breathes. He flashes a quick, genuine smile before turning back and heading toward the flashing lights. Police cars, John realizes suddenly. 

He strides after Sherlock, who has already turned out of the alley. He stops at the street opening, suddenly slightly overwhelmed with the amount of lights that meet him. Several police cars, an ambulance, paramedics, all with revolving lights atop their cars. It seems as though the entire block is roped off by barricades and tape. He attempts to spot Sherlock amidst the slew of quickly moving bodies, but it's nearly impossible. 

He moves forward, weaving through a car or two until he hits tape. The officers standing nearby throw him a glance, and one moves to (he already knows) ask him to leave. He ignores the man and allows his eyes to roam over the scene once again. Sherlock has seemingly vanished. 

It isn't until he's walked the perimeter himself does he notice where Sherlock is.

His jaw drops.

_He's beside the body._

He's crouched down beside it, hands reaching without touching to certain spots. John is tempted to call out to him, to scold him, tell him to get the hell off of the crime scene, but he's speechless. More than speechless. No one has even mentioned the fact that some  _kid_ is inspecting the body. He looks around, brows furrowed, waiting for  _someone_ to acknowledge Sherlock. But no one does.

Not until he stands anyway.

They look upset, the officer striding toward him. There's a bit of pointing and—though John can't hear it—a bit of yelling. The officers face is contorted into a mixture of confusion and rage. Sherlock, as usual, is the epitome of complete indifference. He seems to allow the officer their moment, head pulling back only slightly as the officer shoves his finger forward. There is a moment between the two in which they simply stare at one another. Then Sherlock is speaking. His mouth is moving quite quickly. The officer is beginning to look dumbfounded. 

_Oh._ John knows exactly what's happening.

_Shit._

The officer _is_ completely dumbfounded. He's not even hiding it. Sherlock finally comes to a halt in his speech. John can see his mouth pull up into a condescending smile. He's almost certain that at any moment the constable will come to and slap cuffs on him. He's getting ready to rush forward. He's attempting to plan how he's going to get through the rush of people that will surely come for him. His hand grips the tape before him. And then he watches Sherlock say one last thing. He turns on his heel, spots John, and begins walking toward him. 

“What in the hell was  _that?_ You weren't supposed to go  _on_ the scene. You said you were—“ John starts speaking in a quick, harsh whisper as Sherlock slips back under the tape. Sherlock is wearing a self-satisfied smile. He doesn't seem to be listening to a word John is saying. He allows Sherlock to lead him away from the scene, far enough that John can grab him by the elbow and drag him into an alley. 

“Will you please—“ 

He begins quite viciously, but he's quickly silenced. Sherlock backs him into the cool brick wall, one large hand resting on the back of John's head, the other at his waist and traveling down to his hip. He crushes his body against John's and seizes his mouth, lips moving slow and aggressive. John is baffled. His body doesn't seem to need to be commanded into responding. It does so without his consent, arms slipping beneath Sherlock's and winding around his slender waist. His mouth replies with enthusiasm. Somewhere, his mind is reminding him that he's supposed to be reprimanding Sherlock, but he can't seem to budge from Sherlock's mouth.

After a moment, Sherlock releases his lips. He rests his forehead against John's, breathing heavily. “I've already been scolded once. Though, admittedly, I don't think he felt much conviction in the aftermath.” he breathes. He nudges John's nose with his own, tipping John's head back enough for Sherlock to press another kiss to his mouth. His voice is a low murmur. “I hadn't intended on crossing the tape, but something on the body caught my eye. I thought I'd take a look for myself.” 

“How weren't you stopped?” John's voice has dropped into a growl. He can't help the sudden arousal that's taking over him. Sherlock smirks, sliding his hand from John's head and down his body. “Anyone can be anywhere if they time it properly.” Sherlock replies, hand slipping down to John's hip. Both hands creep gently beneath his shirt, tickling the bare flesh of his hips. “Quite a rush of adrenaline. When the officer began reprimanding me, I'd already gathered the data I needed. To both wrap up my little case, as well as give him a helping hand in his own.” 

John's hands slide down to the small of Sherlock's back and he pulls Sherlock's body against his more. “Is that why he didn't slap the cuffs on you and haul you to the nearest car?” he replies, eyes settling for a moment on Sherlock's lips. He's having the  _worst_ thoughts about those lips. He watches as they stretch into a smile. “He didn't have the time. I made sure to make my leave while he was still wrapping his head about the information I'd just given him.” 

“Which was?”

“That her death wasn't caused by  _alcohol poisoning_ , as they're bound to initially think, but rather blunt trauma to the back of the head with an object that wouldn't leave outer bruising.” he explains quickly, breathlessly. John's eyebrows crease momentarily, confused, but they flatten at the feel of Sherlock's mouth on his again. The two men stay that way for a moment, hands shifting and bodies pushing and lips sliding, before Sherlock finally pulls himself away. “Now, shall we head to dinner? I find I'm quite hungry.”

“Now you're hungry?”

“Mmm, yes. You choose where. My treat.”

“I thought I was buying.”

“And now I am. Come along.” Sherlock says, lifting himself away from John's body. A cold breeze substitutes where Sherlock's hands had been only moments before, and John is tempted to insinuate skipping dinner altogether in lieu of something that involved nudity. But Sherlock grabs his hand and begins leading him down and out of the alleyway before he can think of a witty way to suggest it. 

 

 

John takes a deep breath. He holds it in his chest. He licks his lips. 

It's just as he imagined. No, better. The window in Sherlock's room spills moonlight perfectly across the bed. Sherlock is sprawled across the sheets. His legs are crossed at the ankles and his arms are resting behind his head. His eyes are shut and his lips are turned up in a smile. His hair is slightly mussed. John finds himself staring as he sits beside him. His own eyes are tracing every detail of Sherlock's body. He lifts his hand and allows it to hover over Sherlock's chest. He drops a single fingertip to Sherlock's skin, allowing it to travel down his sternum. He slides it over each rib, and Sherlock's back arches in response, pushing himself upward. When John glances up to Sherlock's face, his eyes are opened. The moonlight is casting an chilly glint to Sherlock's bright eyes. John smiles. He can't help himself.

_Perfect._

He lays his hand flat against Sherlock's chest, allowing the curl of his fingers to mold to Sherlock's shape. Teasingly, he pinches one of his nipples. Sherlock squirms beneath the touch, biting his bottom lip gingerly. John chuckles, allowing his hand to travel down to Sherlock's stomach. There, he traces small circles around his bellybutton. “It's been a year, you know.” John says quietly. 

Sherlock's eyebrow quirks, his eyes shutting serenely. “That tends to happen.” he murmurs. “Days go by, they turn into weeks, which turn into months, and so on...” 

John rolls his eyes, “Ah yes, just what I was looking for. A mini lecture on time progression.” he says with a scowl. “You know what I meant.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, back to watching John. They're softer than usual. “You may have to explain.” he says quietly. John gives a small chuckle as he taps Sherlock's thigh. “If I have to explain, I may feel a bit more ridiculous than I already do.” he says. Sherlock uncrosses his ankles and spreads his legs. John moves to sit between them, and Sherlock frames him between his knees. He spreads his own legs out to frame Sherlock's body, then wraps his arms around Sherlock's thighs. “Humor me.” Sherlock insists, grabbing John's ankles and giving them a quick squeeze.

John sighs, splaying his fingers across Sherlock's thighs. “We met a year ago.”

“I nearly killed you a year ago.”

John smirks. “You did. Just about.”

“Not one of my proudest moments.”

“We would've never met had you not.” John replies, leaning against Sherlock's knee. Sherlock shakes his head, sighing. “You're right. The likelihood of either of us ever having met outside of our circumstance is quite small.” he rambles, fingers crawling to the soles of Johns feet. “Perhaps we'd have passed one another on the street, but the probability of us stopping for communication is nil.” He continues, gently pressing his thumbs just beneath the balls of each foot.

“Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't a romantic.” John says sarcastically, “You know  _just_ how to woo a person.” 

Sherlock gives him a look, applying slightly more pressure to where his thumbs are. John squirms, wiggling his toes and giving the delicate skin behind Sherlock's knees a pinch. Sherlock writhes, his hips lifting and attempting to shift him away. John takes the opportunity to scoot forward, resting Sherlock's hips in his lap. Sherlock doesn't mention it, but he smiles and continues gently massaging John's feet. “Point is... I don't think I've ever been happier to have been nearly run down.” John murmurs, sliding his hands up Sherlock's body. He leans forward, grabbing Sherlock around his ribs, and brushes his lips against Sherlock's stomach. He can feel Sherlock's small chuckle vibrate beneath his mouth. “Did it happen often before our meeting?” 

“Once or twice. “ John mutters against Sherlock's skin. 

“Once or twice?” Sherlock is giggling.

“Maybe three or four. But yours was definitely the best.” John mumbles, pressing more kisses to his skin. Sherlock smirks, running his hands up John's calves. “And which comes second?” 

“Mmm. Time where my mates got me completely smashed and put me in fancy dress as Princess Peach.” 

He feels Sherlock quivering with suppressed giggling. He feels his fingers grip John's legs just slightly tighter. John smiles, looking up through his lashes to Sherlock's face. Sherlock is definitely giggling, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed into a thin line. His body is still quivering just slightly. “The bloke that stepped out of the car tried to chat me up.” John continues, “Think he might have been on one himself.” 

“That can't possibly be true.” Sherlock chuckles.

“Every word. Still have the dress about somewhere.”

“You are a man of constant surprise.” 

John slides his hands down Sherlock's sides and grabs his hips, then lifts himself upright. “Me? No, I'm quite readable.” he says, fingers curling beneath the waistband of Sherlock's pants. He watches Sherlock's eyes dance from John's hands to his face a few times. Then, with a cheeky smirk, he lifts his hips. John smiles, pulling them over his hips, shifting them up his thighs as far as they can go. Both are chuckling as Sherlock lifts his legs, awkwardly bringing them together before John. The awkward movement, however, allows John to slide the underpants up the rest of the way, until Sherlock has to bend his legs to allow John to pull them from his ankles. He instantly frames John between his knees once again. 

“There was a much simpler solution to that.” Sherlock mutters, still smirking.

“Couldn't be bothered.” John replies.

“And what of yours? We'll have to move eventually.”

“And risk the opportunity for more awkward underpants fumbling? What kind of person do you think I am?” John's hands move back to Sherlock's hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the bones. Sherlock shifts his pelvis back, down off of John's lap, and he curls himself up into a sit. He grabs hold of John's shoulders and runs his hands down to his elbows. “I'm not one for sentiment. You know this, John.” he sighs after a moment, running his hands back up to his shoulders. John nods. He doesn't speak. Sherlock is watching his own hands, fingers tip-toeing. He swallows, “So then... you understand that I'm...” he pauses, wetting his lips. John nods again, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's lips. “I haven't told you directly.” Sherlock says.

“You don't need to.”

“You know that I'm  _in_ love with you.”

“So the next bit comes without needing saying.”

John kisses him again. Sherlock fidgets. “I feel as though I should.”

“If you'd like. It's not something I need.”

“It bothers you.”

“It doesn't.”

“It's completely typical of an intimate relationship such as ours.”

John kisses him once again, this time keeping himself pressed against Sherlock's mouth. Their lips move slow against one another. John brings his hands up to Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer still. “I'd rather earn those words.” he says, “Would rather you  _can't_ hold them back anymore.” 

Sherlock's brow quirks. “How do you intend to do that?”

John shifts, slipping his legs out from around Sherlock. There's an awkward moment in which he brings himself to his knees. But it passes quickly as John pushes Sherlock back against the mattress and slots himself against him. “All depends on you.” he murmurs against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock smirks, his hands sliding down John's back. “You need my permission to continue.” he states. John grins. Sherlock chuckles low in his throat. “Must be quite  _intrusive.”_ he murmurs, shifting his hips against John's. 

He's hard. John grins wider, lips dragging themselves down to Sherlock's throat. It's a thought he's been toying with for the last few months of their relationship. They hadn't yet crossed that line, hadn't yet been  _inside_ one another. It seems as though neither has mustered up the courage to push it that far. John, without attracting the attention of Sherlock, has done some  _recreational research_ though. It isn't until that moment that he decides how he wants to go about it.

“Would you oppose?”

“God no.” Sherlock mutters, stretching his neck out longer for John, “I've been waiting for the thought to cross your mind.” 

John's eyebrows raise. He lifts his head to look at Sherlock directly. “You've been  _waiting?”_ he asks incredulously, “And here I thought you were an  _impatient_ man.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, slipping his hands beneath John's underpants and squeezing his bare arse. “Don't get too used to it.” Sherlock's voice is dark. His eyes are clouding over with lust. It sends a chill down John's spine, one that shoots directly into his hips. John dips his head into Sherlock's neck once again and begins kissing a trail downward. Sherlock's hands are scooting John's underpants down as far as he can reach. John lays himself flat against Sherlock, open-mouth kissing his stomach while he slips his pants the rest of the way off of himself. 

“That wasn't nearly as awkward as it could've been.” Sherlock notes.

John nips Sherlock's skin in reply.

He continues moving downward, teasing Sherlock's hips with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock's hips tilt upward toward him in response. John forces them back into the mattress. He hears Sherlock huff a quiet laugh as he squeezes his ankles into John's sides. He continues his descent with his mouth, his lips hot and wet against Sherlock's pelvis and thighs. John is still holding Sherlock's hips into the mattress, and he can feel Sherlock attempting to wriggle them from beneath his grasp. 

“John...” Sherlock's voice is testy. 

“Nope.” John replies against Sherlock's inner thigh.

“I'm not—“

“Don't care.” He gently sinks his teeth into the delicate skin before him.

“You're—“

John sighs, biting Sherlock's thigh once again while wrapping his fingers around the erection before him. He gives it a slightly aggressive tug. He hears Sherlock gasp quite audibly and notes that his fingers have dug themselves into the sheets. “John, I refuse to participate in another exercise of self-control.” Sherlock says evenly. John looks to Sherlock, who is attempting to prop himself up onto his elbows. John quickly moves, pressing his hand into Sherlock's sternum and forcing him back. “If you don't stop whinging, I'll gag you.” he threatens.

Sherlock gives him a haughty smirk. “I like where this is going...” 

John quirks an eyebrow, giving Sherlock another long stroke. “Should've known.”

“The experiments would certainly prove  _interesting_ in such a scenario.” Sherlock groans, allowing his hips to shift upward into John's hand. John enjoys the feeling of control over Sherlock. It's typical that Sherlock has control of the situation in public. He speaks with confidence and walks with an heir of power. But here, beneath John's hands, in the privacy of his room, Sherlock is  _his._ He protests of course. He squirms and whines and pretends to be annoyed by his lack of leading. But John knows that once he touches him in just the right way, Sherlock will do little to resist.

John shifts himself back between Sherlock's thighs once again. He gives him another few solid strokes, then drags his tongue from base to tip. He shuts his eyes and listens to Sherlock's breathing. It's the best way for him to gauge whether he's doing it right or not, he's found. John drags wet lips over him, flicking his tongue against Sherlock as though kissing him. He  _is_ , if he thinks about it. Is properly snogging an erection. Ask him a year ago if he'd have ever found himself doing that, he may have asked how many pints they'd had.

Sherlock is shifting. John can feel his torso twisting slightly. The angle changes. John looks up and notices Sherlock is propped up onto his elbow. He has something clasped in his hand, something that he's slipping between the small gap of his own body and John's shoulder. He sits on his elbows only long enough to catch John's eye, then lays back into his pillows once again.

John stops for a moment to glance at the items he's dropped between them. A small bottle and a square wrapper. 

_Oh._

He looks up to Sherlock, for perhaps some kind of confirmation, but Sherlock's eyes are closed and he has a serene smile on his face. He's  _waiting._ He's keeping his body relaxed and John realizes this quite suddenly.  _Oh._ He swallows quietly. “Did you need a moment?” He hears Sherlock's voice ask. He looks up, but Sherlock's expression hasn't changed. 

“Mmm no. Nope.”

“Whenever you're ready.”

John sits himself upright upon his knees, taking the bottle and flipping the cap open. He pours a liberal amount of the clear liquid into the palm of his hand and tucks the bottle between his knees. His heart is hammering in his chest, much against his own will. He feels like a virgin once again, nervous and awkward and hoping beyond hope he lasts for more than a few seconds. He rubs the liquid between both hands, slathering it between his fingers and taking a deep breath. Sherlock still hasn't moved. He's still got that serene smile. His body is still completely relaxed. 

With a quiet exhale, John gently reaches out. He takes Sherlock in one hand and—with a hand he's desperately attempting to steady—feels his way down the length between his thighs. John swallows as he feels it, and for a brief moment, Sherlock's body tenses. He relaxes as John takes a moment to merely massage the opening. Johns other hand is still gliding up and down Sherlock's shaft. “Alright?” John asks quietly.

“Mmm very.” Sherlock purrs, shifting his hips closer toward John. 

John gives tentative prods. Sherlock squirms in delight. Finally, slowly, he slides a single finger inside. His eyes quickly look to Sherlock's face. Sherlock's lips are parted. He's taking deep, steadying breaths. It's obvious, however, that's he's enjoying it. John works his one finger slowly, taking notes from the few women he'd been with as far as technique. Soon, he slips in another. Sherlock hisses, but a chuckle escapes him. John can't seem to keep his eyes off of his face. It's  _perfect._ Completely, totally, utterly perfect. Sherlock's fingers are gripping the sheets, and his bottom lip is tucked beneath his teeth, and his eyes are squeezed shut and he's smiling. 

John swells with pride. He wants nothing more than to kiss the man sprawled out before him. He plans to do just that. 

“John.” He watches Sherlock's mouth move around his name. “ _John.”_

“Yes.” John replies, voice low and rasped. 

“Shall we?” he breathes.

John has nearly forgotten about his own arousal. He's been so focused on Sherlock, on the way he moves and breathes and  _feels,_ that it didn't even seem relevant. It very suddenly surges back to him, is suddenly quite painful, and he's suddenly quite overcome with the absolute  _need_ for the body before him. He slowly slides his fingers from Sherlock's body and wipes both hands against the sheets. He grabs for the condom sitting beside him and fumbles momentarily. His hands are still slick. He growls as he grabs hold of it with his teeth. Sherlock chuckles under his breath and John resists the blush that threatens his to come to his cheeks as he tears the package open. 

“Alright?” Sherlock asks. There's a jaunty tone in his voice, one that John  _knows_ is accompanied by that  _smirk._ He's focused his attention on getting the condom over him, which seems to be much more of a task than he's used to. 

John picks up the bottle once again and tips a bit more into his hand, sliding it over him gingerly. He recaps the bottle and sets it aside quite slowly. He's stalling for time. He's nervous and needy and wants to last but desperately needs to just  _get off_ and it's all very conflicting in his head. He knows that Sherlock's previous experiences are  _less than satisfying_ , and so—of course—he wants to make sure that  _this_ one is perfect.

Well, perhaps not perfect, but at the very least  _good._

When he sits back up, Sherlock is sitting before him. He reaches forward and grabs hold of the back of John's neck, pulling him into a harsh, hungry kiss.  _Jesus_ . He wraps his other arm around John's middle and leans back, pulling John down with him. John feels like he's vibrating with excitement, with desire, with necessity. Sherlock's lips pull from his and down into his neck, where he pulls at the skin at John's throat. “ _Now._ ” he growls, sliding his hands quickly down Johns back and onto his arse. 

A shiver runs down John's spine and he's  _more_ than ready to oblige Sherlock's request. Sherlock tilts his hips upward, John positions himself. There's a moment of hesitation that John can't seem to help. He's watching Sherlock. He's watching and waiting for Sherlock to object, but it doesn't come. And so John slowly pushes his hips forward.

Both men gasp at the feeling. John has seemingly forgotten how to breathe for a moment. Sherlock's eyes have shut, his lips are parted, his hands are embedding themselves into John's skin. John moves slowly, burying himself deeper. Sherlock has also stopped breathing, it seems. His fingers are digging deeper. It seems to take a full minute before John feels the bump of Sherlock's skin against his pelvis. 

They both release the bated breath they've been holding. Sherlock seems to be swallowing over and over again. John is attempting to restart his lungs. He's panting. Literally  _panting._ Sherlock finally opens his eyes. They stare at one another for a long moment. John leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's mouth. “Alright?” he whispers. 

“Alright.” Sherlock murmurs. His hands slip up to John's hips and grab hold of them possessively. He pushes them carefully, and John understands the very subtle motions meaning. He takes a deep breath and draws his hips backward. The smile returns to Sherlock's mouth for a moment, and his lips part once again. 

John starts slow, rocking his hips in a very fluid motion. It's much...  _tighter_ than he's had in the past. The sensations are nearly overwhelming, but he breathes deeply and paces himself. He's determined, despite his body's screaming, to make this last. Sherlock's deep moans in his neck are entirely too attractive. He nudges Sherlock's face toward his, snatching his mouth with his own. The tempo of their kiss seems to mimic John's hips, beginning quite slow and lazy. Sherlock's fingertips are creeping up the groove of John's spine, moving around to hang on to his ribs. 

“ _Jesus.”_ John breathes into Sherlock's mouth. He feels his hips moving of their own accord. They're beginning to move quicker, taking long, delicious strokes that seem to be hitting Sherlock  _just right._ He knows this because with each thrust, Sherlock gasps as though the sensation is brand new. John stops for a moment, reaching between them to adjust Sherlock. At just the right moment, John lays himself flat against Sherlock's body and wraps his arms beneath Sherlock's shoulder blades, using his shoulders for leverage.

Sherlock is still slick. With each thrust, John is rubbing against him and stroking him and Sherlock's eyes fly open. “ _Oh.”_ he groans. His breathing has become shallow and erratic. He's wrapped his arms around John's back. He brings his legs upward, wrapping them around John as well. The change in angle is  _perfect._ Too perfect. John moves his entire body with each thrust, the inevitable building up and up and up.  _Oh God_ he knows he won't be lasting for much longer. He buries his head into Sherlock's shoulder, just about snogging the curve of his neck. 

“ _Fu—_ Sherlock.” John moans.

“ _Jesus,_ John.” Sherlock breathes.

“I'm not—“

“Me neither.”

“Let's—“

“ _Yes.”_

John rocks quicker. Sherlock tightens his hold around Johns back, pressing him harder into his body. Both of them are breathing harder and harder, groaning and panting and biting back sounds that could be mistaken for animal. Sherlock releases one arm from his vice-like squeeze around John and grabs John by the jaw, lifting his head out of his shoulder and bringing it to face him. He crushes his mouth to John's, and it's hurried and aggressive and just about out-of-control. John can hardly concentrate on it, is allowing Sherlock to lead. He's there, he's  _right there._ Every single inch of his skin is on fire and he's becoming dizzy, and it seems that Sherlock is no longer functioning properly either, because his mouth has stopped moving in deliberate ways and he's only breathing into John's mouth.

“Yes?” John asks somehow.

“ _Yes.”_ Sherlock hisses.

That's all it takes. That's the moment that tips him over the edge and suddenly his body is being racked by waves and waves of release. His mouth is moving against Sherlock's, he's saying  _something,_ but he can't hear his own words because Sherlock's are drowning him out in his head. Even though they aren't loud, even though Sherlock is  _whispering_ into John's mouth, John hears them as though they're being shouted at the top of his lungs.

“ _I love you, I love you, I love you..._ ” 

  
  


  


  
  


John sighs at the textbook in his lap. He's not taking a single word in, not really. He's too busy thinking about the events of just an hour ago. He's thinking about the looks on Sherlock's face. He's thinking about the way Sherlock's body moved beneath him. He's thinking about Sherlock's words, the ones he's been too afraid to say in sequence. Sherlock had no problem telling him that he was in love with him, the one time. But to say  _that little sentence_ , to say  _those three words_ seemed like the biggest block Sherlock had.

And yet, he'd said them. They play like a song in his head, Sherlock's voice barely a whisper, practically a plea in his mouth.  _I love you._ Had John said it in return? He can't seem to remember. He can't seem to remember  _any_ of what he was saying near the end there. He had just been  _speaking_ . He hopes he wasn't saying anything too embarrassing. If he had, Sherlock hadn't mentioned it.

_Speaking of Sherlock._ John gives the tall, lean, barely clothed frame a quick glance as it walks before him.  He averts his eyes quickly though, glancing back to his textbook as though lost in thought. Sherlock's hair is still wet. The fresh smell of soap is lingering around him as he walks by. He's got a shirt in his hand, but he's yet to put it on. John swallows, watching his back as he pulls out the chair before his desk and sits. It's impossible for him to concentrate with Sherlock in the room quite suddenly. All he can do is stare at all that skin. All he can think about is how badly he wants to taste it. He clears his throat as he looks back down to his book. He needs to focus. 

_Focus. Concentrate. Study. Exams coming up._

He doesn't get much of more of an opportunity. 

He see's Sherlock's long, slender fingers grip the top of the book and snatch it off of John's lap. He shuts it with a swift, one handed motion and chucks it carelessly on the desk. “Oi, I need that. I've got—“

“An exam on chapters ten to fifteen, yes, I recall.” Sherlock replies loftily. He moves John's leg off the couch and flops into the newly-vacated space, resting his back into John's chest. “However, we both know that the exam  _isn't_ going to be covering thirteen, as you've complained that no discussion in class was done. Which is the exact chapter you were just reading. Therefore, you're wasting your own time.” He continues, shifting to rest his head against John's shoulder. “I'd much rather it be  _me_ wasting your time.” 

“Why's that?”

“Then you don't berate yourself for  _buggering up_ your 'carefully planned study schedule',” He puts quotation fingers around the phrase. He knows John well, “And we both benefit from the time wasted.” he explains simply. He tilts his head upward, meeting John's downward look to him. John's smiling.  _Of course_ he's smiling. He can't possibly help smiling with Sherlock in his presence. John presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple and exhales into his skin. “Got me there.” John says.

“It's a talent of mine.” 

John nods as he slides his hands around Sherlock's shoulders. He gives him a squeeze. “You know, Harry wants to meet you.” he murmurs into Sherlock's temple. Sherlock's brows furrow and he rests his hands upon John's thighs. “Harry... your sister?” he asks, leaning into John's lips. John nods and Sherlock looks to him once again. “Why?”

“Guess she figures she's supposed to. She introduces me to every woman that comes into her life. I'm supposed to introduce her to the first man in mine.”

“Mmm. Would you like me to meet your sister?” Sherlock murmurs, stretching his legs across the cushions and wiggling his toes. He grabs up a book from the coffee table and opens it at random. John exhales slowly. “Don't know. She might tell mum and dad.” he replies softly. Sherlock's brows furrow once again and he looks to John. “You haven't told them?”

“No. Not... yet.” 

Sherlock makes a face before turning his attention back to the book. John tries to look at the text. It's in German. He waits for Sherlock to comment about it, but he simply begins reading. John swallows. “Aren't you going to—“

“Ask why you haven't told your parents? No. You're afraid of what their reaction will be to you being in a homosexual relationship. They've already had one child come to them with such news, you fear how they'll treat you if you come forth with the same information. Perfectly natural.” he explains offhandedly. 

“You know, I'm not sure if I'm actually gay.” John confesses.

Sherlock nods. “You've been pondering the thought because you've never been attracted to a man before. You're attempting to put a classification on what we have, but I don't think that's necessary. However, when you do tell your parents, it's what they'll assume.” he says in the same monotonous tone. “It's what societal standards dictate. Sodomize a man once and you're a _poofter_ for the rest of your life.” 

“I love you.” 

Sherlock stops reading. He glances up to meet John's gaze and quirks an eyebrow. They stare at each other for a moment. Finally, Sherlock speaks. “Oh?” he asks quietly. John's eyebrows crease minutely, but flatten out within the same moment. “Anybody else would've thought that was some sort of... crap break up attempt.” he says. “Or they'd just completely misunderstand the entire situation.” 

Sherlock's brows crease deeply. “Why?” 

“People assume the worst.”

“And that's the populations problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“ _Assuming_ things. Assumption is simply a kinder way to say ' _guess'._ “

“Don't you assume things?”

“I never guess, John.”

John squeezes Sherlock tighter. He presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. He does so over and over and over again, overwhelmed quite rapidly by a swell of emotion. He wants nothing more than to sit in that couch and kiss Sherlock for the rest of the night. For the rest of the week. Rest of the month, rest of the year. He wants nothing more than to kiss Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his life, if Sherlock would allow it. Sherlock brings his hand up to John's cheek and locks him in for a proper kiss. John sighs as Sherlock pulls away. “I do, you know.” he says.

“Do what.” Sherlock replies, pressing his lips quickly to John's.

“Love you.” John says against Sherlock's mouth.

“Is that right?” Sherlock asks innocently.

John smiles. It's a warm smile that seems to melt him entirely. “Very right.”

Sherlock exhales quietly, nudging his face into John's neck. “Probably the worst decision you've made to date.” he says, swiping his lips across his jaw. John shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“What do you know.” Sherlock mumbles affectionately.

They sit like that for what seems like a very long time. Sherlock's fingers are slowly stroking John's cheek. His eyes are shut and his face is lax. John shuts his eyes and breathes Sherlock's skin into his lungs. He memorizes it. He knows it'll save him on a rainy day. “I love you too, you know.” he hears Sherlock murmur. John's lips break into a smile. “Oh?”

“Mmm. Strange chemistry, love.”

“Human body in general is strange chemistry.”

“Yes, but love...” He sighs, “Dangerous. Destructive. Physically and mentally.” He's still rubbing John's cheek. “Yet one of the most sought after emotions in all of humanity.” 

“You can't understand why.” John states. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and peers at John. He doesn't reply. Instead, he gives a halfhearted smile. “You recall the day I met you at Bart's.” he asks, turning his attention back to his book. John nods. “Day you brought my ID back.”

“I lied.” Sherlock says.

“Did you?”

“I didn't find it. I took it.” Sherlock confesses. John quirks an eyebrow, watching Sherlock's nonchalance. “I saw it in the side pocket of your bag and stole it while I was making my way back to my car.” He wets his lips. “I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I was so interested in socializing with you. But it felt like a necessity.” He stops reading for a moment, staring blankly at the wall before him. His eyebrows furrow. “I'm... not entirely certain why I felt the need to disclose that.”

John smirks. He finds it ridiculously endearing. “Think it's a side effect of that  _love_ disorder.” he replies.

“Randomly spouting past indiscretions? Perhaps I should look into a  _cure.”_

“I'd rather you not.” 

“Don't think I'd like to either.”

Sherlock stands quickly, grabbing up John's textbook and settling himself back against his body. He sighs as he flips open the book to chapter fourteen. His eyes roam over the text quickly. John attempts to read the text as well, but Sherlock quickly drops the book into his lap. “I'm going to administer my own exam.” Sherlock says simply. John quirks a brow. “Twenty problems. You'll get four chances to answer each question. For every incorrect answer, another question is added to the list.” he explains. 

“And for the correct answers?” John asks, running his hands down Sherlock's chest to rest on his stomach.

Sherlock smirks, glancing back to John briefly. “We'll cross the bridge when we come to it.”

“Cheeky bugger.”

Sherlock sneaks a quick kiss to John's lips then turns back to the book. “Question one.”

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.


	8. Eight

John takes the familiar stairs two at a time, accompanying each step with a stomp. He's  _seething._ It's one thing for his professor to miss mark a paper of his—he understands that accidents happen, that professors are humans too—but to be told that he'd been marked down for  _plagiarism_ and then  _ridiculed_ in front of his peers for it? Oh, he was seeing nothing but  _red_ at every corner. 

What he needs is Sherlock.

Sherlock always makes him better.

He has a key to the flat. Sherlock has decided that it's simply easier for him to walk in than for Sherlock to constantly have to answer the door. And, of course, if he tires of Pete or simply needs some peace from the library or... well, there's a slew of reasons Sherlock listed off for why he'd given John a key to his flat. John also knows that “ _Just because”_ is a reason, but Sherlock would never say that and John wouldn't expect him to.

He sighs as he shoves the key into the lock and turns it over. He's already envisioning the couch, already envisioning Sherlock's semi-concerned expression at his anger. He's seeing Sherlock curling up against him like some kind of giant cat, kissing his lips and jaw and throat and face. It drastically calms his rattling nerves. He swings the door open and calls out, “I'm starting to believe that everyone really  _is_ an idiot, you know.” He shuts it behind him and drops his bag to the floor. “Remember that paper I had? The one you helped me on? He thought—“

He stops mid-sentence as he turns.

Sherlock is sitting in a corner. He's got his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms are wrapped protectively around his shins. His hair is wild, his eyes are squeezed shut, and he's muttering to himself over and over and over. His toes are wiggling rapidly and his body is rocking subtly. He's wearing a dressing gown.

“Sherlock?” John's entire demeanor changes at the sight. Anger has been replaced with fear. He strides over to where Sherlock is and kneels down before him. “Sherlock?” he repeats. He sets his hands on Sherlock's knees, and finally Sherlock's eyes fly open. He looks surprised to see John before him. But surprise seems to give way to gratitude, and suddenly Sherlock's arms are flying outward. They wrap around John and he bowls him over in a hug. 

John isn't sure how to react. Sherlock is burying his face into John's neck and he's muttering something, a string of words that John can't quite understand. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's back. “Sherlock, what's going on?” he asks quietly.

“John I came very close, very close to relapsing because my mind is  _spiraling out of control,_ I needed a distraction and I was  _very close_ to making a  _very specific_ purchase, but I knew you'd be disappointed in me and so I've been attempting to calm myself but it hasn't  _worked,_ my mind doesn't  _work_ that way. It's begging and pleading and chewing at itself and I may  _literally_ be going  _insane.”_ Sherlock breathes into John's neck. John can barely understand whats being said, but he nods and rubs Sherlock's back gently. “I just need to be distracted from myself, need to stop  _thinking_ about  _everything_ for a moment.” Sherlock continues.

“You haven't...” John trails off quietly.

“I haven't.” Sherlock replies shortly.

“What about—“

“No. Haven't smoked either. Know you dislike the smell and taste.” Sherlock mutters quickly. 

John smiles warmly. He strokes Sherlock's hair, then lifts his head to meet his eyes. “That's very considerate of you.” John tells him, still smiling. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upward. Then suddenly there are lips and hands and fumbling and clothes are being undone and John isn't quite sure what's happened but he's certainly not complaining. He's just about forgotten the entire incident, has felt whatever anger he had slip away beneath Sherlock's nimble fingers. 

“Sherlock,” John breathes. He's about to mention the discomfort of the floor beneath him, about how they should at  _least_ move to the couch, but Sherlock isn't listening. He's murmuring to himself, to John, to no one. His mouth is moving against John's neck and ears and his whispering, “ _I need you, I need you. I need you._ ” His hands are at the fly of John's jeans and he's quickly unsnapping and unzipping. “ _I need you, Oh God I need you._ ” It's a plea, a prayer, and it slips from Sherlock's lips in such a way that John can't help but believe it. It's very nearly overwhelming and it causes John's heart to rip and mend all in one sitting. 

He doesn't know how to reply. Sherlock is still whispering as he drops kisses to John's body, as he tugs both jeans and pants down John's legs. He isn't quite sure how to move, what to do, how to act. He wants to help Sherlock in whichever way he can. He's not sure how.  _I could distract you._ If ever there was a time to prove himself, it was then. 

He pulls Sherlock upward, back to his face. He looks distraught, confused, bewildered. He looks just about pained. It doesn't settle well, causes John to feel like needles are sitting in his stomach, poking him with any wrong movements he makes. Sherlock's mouth opens to speak, “I—“

“I know.” John interrupts quietly. “I know. I'm here.”

“John, I—“

“Whatever you need. I'm here.” 

Sherlock crushes his mouth to John's. Literally. John is almost certain that he's tasting blood in his mouth the moment their lips begin to move against one another. He doesn't mention it, doesn't find it necessary, almost finds it attractive even. He's having a hard time breathing properly. It's exhilarating and terrifying. There's a small window in which Sherlock breaks their kiss. John takes this moment to speak, “Bed.” is the only word he seems to be able to get out. 

Sherlock doesn't respond, not with words. Instead he pulls himself upward and drags John up with him. When they stand, he's back to the forceful smashing of lips on lips, the one that nearly _hurts_ but John enjoys nonetheless. He begins leading them back to his bedroom, his arms wrapped tight around John's waist. John really  _is_ having trouble breathing, between Sherlock's squeezing and his unrelenting mouth. And yet, somehow, he doesn't want to be let go. 

They flop to the bed with equally loud grunts. Sherlock's moves are quick—he stands and strips out of the clothing that is still hanging on him. It's the first moment John gets to breathe. He takes in air as though it's in short supply, making to strip off the t-shirt that's now stretched at the neck. He barely gets it up over his shoulders before Sherlock straddles him and tears it from his head. He snatches John up in another kiss that takes the wind from them both and they tip backward into the mattress.

Sherlock's body is tense. Every muscle in his body is straining as though he's waiting for something to attack. John grabs Sherlock by the face and pulls him away for a moment. “Sherlock, I need air.” he gasps. Sherlock doesn't respond, bows his head into John's neck instead and bites into him. John hisses, his body squirming beneath Sherlock's rigid form. 

“Sherlock, we—“

“ _God_ John, I need—“

“ _Jesus Sherlock, can I—“_

“—your body, I need to—“

“I'm here, Sherlock, I'm yours—“

“—feel you, all of you.  _John—“_

John hesitates for a moment. The words seem to wrap about John's throat and squeeze tighter and tighter until they travel up into his mind. Oh.  _Oh._ Sherlock hand's are moving, over John's neck and down John's body, sliding and gripping and grabbing and embedding his fingerprints into whichever piece of skin they can get a hold of. John's never... hasn't  _really_ considered... is honestly quite  _terrified_ at the prospect of... John sighs, and it comes out quite shaky. He's nervous. Of course he's nervous. He's never personally had anyone  _in_ him before, has only ever thought of it in passing. Well,  _had_ only ever thought of it in passing. It's been something that pops into his head more frequently. 

Could he? Right then? Would he? 

For Sherlock?

His mouth speaks before his brain catches up. “Yes.” he breathes. His eyes are wide open. He's staring at the ceiling. His brain is reeling. He says it again, louder this time. Sherlock is slowing, his hands still gripping but his mouth steadying in pace. His mind catches up, finally. He's told Sherlock yes. Twice. He's agreed to allow Sherlock into his body. “Yes.” he says it louder still, almost normally. Sherlock halts and brings his gaze back to John's eyes. 

John searches his face, from his darkened eyes to his swollen lips to his mad hair, and  _yes._ The answer, now clear in his head, is yes. “Yes.” he tells Sherlock, nodding. Sherlock's brows lift. “Yes?” he asks, tone most certainly inquisitive.

John is still nodding. “Yes.” 

Sherlock leans forward, lips barely brushing John's as he repeats, “Yes.”

John smiles a small smile, nodding still. “Yes. Yes,  _please.”_

John feels Sherlock's body relax. He presses a kiss to John lips. “Yes.” he growls. It sends that tell-tale shiver down John's spine and he's  _more_ than ready, which terrifies him. But Sherlock no longer has that completely distraught look on his face and he's recognizable as the man that John loves so it makes everything okay. More than okay. 

It makes everything perfect. 

  
  


  


  
  


It feels like it's been ages since he's been in his own flat.

Pete is actually  _surprised_ to see him walk through the door. “Oi, John! Thought you'd gone off and died.” he calls from the couch. There's a slew of beer bottles on the table and he has to wonder how many are from that evening. John rolls his eyes, moving aside to allow Sherlock into the flat before he shuts the door behind him. He turns back to find Pete's staring at Sherlock. The two—as John knew would happen from the first time they'd met—had never gotten on. Pete seemed even  _less_ enthusiastic once John had come to tell him the extent of their relationship.

“Sherlock.” Pete says stiffly.

“Peter.” Sherlock replies icily.

They say no more. John rolls his eyes as he grabs up the pile of mail sitting on the table. “Anything important looking?” he asks, flipping through each envelope. Pete grunts, “Dunno. Didn't look. If it had your name on it, I chucked it there.”

“Ta, mate.”

“S'not a problem. Beer?” 

“I'm alright.”

He doesn't offer one to Sherlock. John notices, but says nothing. He flashes Pete a semi-smile before grabbing up Sherlock's hand and pulling him from the room. “Your flatmate is a  _rude_ little man, isn't he?” Sherlock asks dryly, not bothering to keep his voice down. John shushes him, but he's smiling while he does so. “Always with that mouth of yours.” he says, gesturing Sherlock through his door with a sweep of his arm. He shuts the door behind him and Sherlock smirks. “You've never complained about  _this mouth of mine_ before.” he claims loftily.

John wraps an arm around his slender waist and pulls him in close. “Don't believe I'll be starting any time soon.” he murmurs. Sherlock's still got that smirk on his face as he nudges John's nose, tilting his face upward until their lips meet. They share a brief kiss before John pulls away and gives Sherlock a quick pat. “I'll only be a mo. Did you.. want to grab Chinese? Or were you thinking something different?” John asks offhandedly. He's flipping through the envelopes, mentally evaluating the importance of each piece by the logo displayed.

“Whatever you'd prefer. I can't say I'm quite hungry enough to have a full meal.” Sherlock replies, flopping onto John's bed with a huff. John makes a noise of acknowledgment, but Sherlock can tell quite easily that he wasn't paying attention to his answer. He quirks an eyebrow at John, who is staring at a single envelope. His face has gone serious and his eyes have gone slightly wider. His body is stiff. Sherlock watches him carefully.  _Important message._ “Looks as though you've gotten something of relevance after all.” 

John swallows. He recognizes the crest at the top before he looks at the name. “It's... from the R.A.M.C.” he says quietly. Sherlock goes completely still. The room becomes silent enough to hear Pete on the phone in the sitting room. It's as though they've both stopped breathing. John  _has_ stopped breathing momentarily. He swallows again and sets aside the other letters. He takes a seat on his bed beside Sherlock. 

He sits staring at the envelope, holding it with both hands. After a moment, Sherlock's voice comes into his ear. “I do believe you're suppose to  _open_ such correspondence.” It's a quiet murmur, one that lacks any emotion. John knows this is Sherlock's version of encouragement without bias. He nods as he flips the envelope over and looks at the seal. His heart is hammering in his chest. He knows what the letter is, knows what hangs in the balance of one slip of his finger. 

_Oh God._

He slips his index finger in the small gap at the corner of the seal and tears along the top fold. There's a single sheet of paper inside, folded very crisply along two lines. He takes a deep breath before flipping the paper open and begins reading right in the middle of the page. 

_Oh._

His eyes travel back up to the top of the letter.

His heart thumps wildly in his chest.

Sherlock is reading over his shoulder.

His heart thumps wildly in his chest, too.

“They've given me cadetship.” John murmurs. His eyes are wide and his jaw is beginning to hang slack and adrenaline is about to explode from his veins. There's a bubble of something ridiculously excited building in his chest, and he finds the beginnings of laughter welling up inside of him. And then it does—it starts slow, with unbelieving giggles, then works its way higher and higher, until he's cackling and shaking his fists. “I'm in!” he cries, laughing maniacally. He's bubbling over and he's tempted to call up everyone he knows and announce it accordingly. But more than that, more than  _anything,_ he just wants to wrap Sherlock up in the worlds biggest hug and kiss his face and snog him into oblivion. 

He turns to face Sherlock, grin spread as wide as it possibly stretches...

But it falls instantly. 

Sherlock is—for lack of a better word—upset. He's attempting to hide it, of course. He's attempting to look completely indifferent, completely unbiased. But his eyes give him away, and John can practically  _see_ the rage and hurt and devastation stretching inside his limbs. John knows that Sherlock has already realized he's given himself away, and yet Sherlock smiles anyway. It is a pained smile, one that never even remotely makes it to his eyes. “I suppose congratulations are in order.” he says quietly. 

“Thank you.” John replies, voice barely above a whisper.

There is a tense silence that stretches out for miles between them. “I understand it's quite competitive.” Sherlock says suddenly, voice much more chipper than his face allows. John looks back to the letter, nodding. “Extremely. I applied little over a year ago. It's... it's a long process.”

“ _In a way.”_ Sherlock murmurs.

“I wasn't sure I'd actually get in. I'm a bit...  _older_ than their normal recruits.” John explains.

“However, your family has a military past. I'm sure they keep records of such.” 

“Doesn't really make a differ—“

“ _Everything_ makes a difference.”

They sit in silence once again. The happy bubble in John's chest has popped, has been replaced with something close to dread. He hadn't expected to meet Sherlock, hadn't expected to get so close, hadn't expected to  _fall in love_ in the time he waited. But there it was, and there was Sherlock, hiding behind that mask he wore so very well, the one that no longer fooled him. 

“The next step in the process is, of course, to speak with your officer about your training.” Sherlock continues suddenly.

“Yeah... yeah. I'll ring him on Monday.”

“Would you prefer to call him today? No need to put it off on—“

“No.” John interrupts. “I'll do it Monday.” 

They sit in silence. John can't think of a single thing to say. He feels as though he needs to apologize but... well, but he  _doesn't._ Not in his mind. Not in his opinion. Sherlock had once asked what he was planning on doing with himself, and he'd told him that he was going to the military. It was always something that hung over their relationship, whether they'd fallen in love or had simply been friends. But the look in Sherlock's eyes, the one he's trying to hide, forces John to feel like groveling at his knees. 

Sherlock stands quite suddenly, heading toward the door. “This is obviously call for celebration, John. Perhaps we should head to dinner.” He tells the wall. He slips his hands into his pockets. “Chinese, did you say? Or perhaps something new. Mediterranean?” 

“Sherlock—“

“Or Italian. It's of no matter to me—” 

“Sherlock.”

“—Not very hungry, as it happens.” he mutters. He inhales deeply and turns to face John finally. The corners of his mouth are pulled up, but just barely. It's a casual smile, one that John knows is merely for show. He swallows, standing slowly. “Sherlock, we need—“

“To eat. Come, John. You must be famished.” 

“Maybe we should—“

“We'll discuss the matter later. For now, you should celebrate your accomplishment.” Sherlock voice says this with finality. John doesn't bother to argue. He considers arguing further. Eventually, he's sure, Sherlock would submit and allow him to speak his part. However, he doesn't want to cause any further tension. Besides, he's right. He  _is_ famished. And the occasion  _is_ call for celebration. He swallows quietly and gives Sherlock a single nod. 

Sherlock inhales, holding in his chest as he steps toward John. Slowly, he wraps his arms around John's shoulders and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “You look about as thrilled as a man told his wife's been sleeping with the gym teacher.” he murmurs. John sighs, “I'm chuffed. Over the moon.”

“As you should be.”

“I am. But I'm concerned.”

“Are you?”

John weaves his arms around Sherlock's waist and dips his head into his neck. “Extremely.” 

“About our relationship.” Sherlock states.

“About you.” John specifies. 

Sherlock frowns, pulling his head back to look at John's face. “You're concerned about me.” 

“You need me.” John says quietly. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes. He stares at his throat instead. He hears Sherlock sigh as he squeezes John tighter and rests his chin upon the top of his head. “Yes.” he murmurs. “I do.”

John huffs a quiet, sardonic laugh. “No pressure, then.”

“None at all.” Sherlock replies earnestly. They pull away from one another and, finally, John meets Sherlock's eyes. “I was, in earnest, hoping to discuss this later but I suppose now is just as fine a time as any.” Sherlock says with a resigned look. He gestures for John to sit back down, and John does so. Sherlock sits beside him and rests his hand upon John's thigh. “I am aware of the admission process of the RAMC. I was well aware, once you'd informed me that you'd begun planning, that you'd already submitted your application.” he explains evenly. He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Therefore, I was aware that this letter would, eventually, make its way to you.”

John can't help the small twitch of a smile that crosses his lips momentarily. Should've known Sherlock would know.

“Your admission into the RAMC has no connection to our relationship.” Sherlock continues. “I am a man of logic. I understand that you'd begun this entire process well before any intimacy occurred between us and so, of course, it has priority.” He speaks as though he's practiced the speech, as though he's been waiting for the time when it would finally come to be needed. John wonders vaguely if he had. John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock seems to bash on, “My opinion on the matter is, therefore, irrelevant.” 

“I don't—“

“I know you were under the impression that we'd have some sort of discussion on the matter, on how I'm to react and what the next step between  _us_ is, but the point is moot. You should continue planning for your departure as you would've had nothing happened.”

John shakes his head, “Can't.”

“You have no choice.”

“It doesn't  _work_ that way, Sherlock.” 

“I refuse to be a factor in your planning, John.”

John looks to Sherlock and shakes his head again, “You already are.” he says. Sherlock swallows and doesn't meet his eyes. He's watching his own hand, which has a single finger tracing circles into John's leg. He doesn't speak. “Look, when I put in that application, I wasn't...  _expecting_ to be here. I didn't know I was going to meet anyone or fall in love or... anything.” John explains. He glances down to Sherlock's hand and places his over it. “I wasn't expecting you.” 

“Then you've no reason to factor me in, John.”

“No, stop.” John squeezes his hand. “That's not the point I'm making.” 

“I don't change—“

“Shut up.” John interrupts. Sherlock silences himself quickly. John takes another breath. “Fact is, despite what I was  _expecting,_ you happened. And that's  _not_ something I regret in the slightest. Nor is it something I'm willing to give up.”

“John—“

“I'm still going to plan on going.” he says over Sherlock's attempt at interruption. He looks up, staring at Sherlock's profile for a moment before he finally meets John's eyes. “I'm going. I told you in the beginning, before anything happened, it's what I planned on doing, and I still plan on doing it. That bit hasn't changed, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nods, swallowing. “Good.” he says shortly.

“The bit that  _has_ changed is how we're to go about this while I'm gone.”

Sherlock doesn't reply. John can tell he's got a million arguments he's mapping out, one's that are rational, one's that make perfect sense, one's that John knows he wouldn't be able to say no to. All he needs to do is figure out which will strike John just the right way. He waits. He sees the moment in which Sherlock decides which argument he'll use and watches as Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John—for once—is quite ahead of him. He grabs Sherlock around the back of his neck and pulls him forward, silencing him with an aggressive kiss.

Sherlock's body is tense. His brain is obviously still buzzing with words that he feels he needs to say, but John isn't looking to give up. He wraps his arm around him and draws him closer. He presses in deeper, stroking the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's resistance doesn't hold for much longer. John can feel his body beginning to loosen, feels Sherlock's hands slide around his ribs and settle on his back.

John pulls away with a quick nibble of his bottom lip and rests his forehead to Sherlock's. “Now... you were saying Italian?” he murmurs.

“We were in the middle of—“

John kisses him again. Sherlock bites John's lip and pulls away. “John, you're the one who—“

Another kiss. “You should know,” John says, “That I intend to snog you until you agree to shut up and come to dinner instead.” He reiterates his point with a kiss that nearly tips Sherlock backward, but he manages to hold his spine stiff and makes an agitated noise in his throat. “But we have—“ Sherlock attempts to argue, and is—as promised—silenced by John's kiss.

“I'm—“ Kiss.

“You're not—“ Kiss.

“ _John_ —“ Kiss.

“Fine.” Sherlock says finally. He grabs John's face and crushes his mouth into his, toppling the two of them to the mattress and slotting his body over his. He snatches John's wrists and pulls them over his head, holding them over one another with one hand. Then, with a quick, strangely  _graceful_ movement, he swings his legs around John's hips and straddles him. It is then that he pulls his mouth from John's. “You're the one who wished to discuss the matter right at this moment. You convinced me to do so, and so now we shall.” he says. 

John wets his lips as he allows his eyes to travel over Sherlock. A small smile begins creeping to his mouth. He manages to wiggle his hands free from Sherlock's grasp, watching as he sits himself upright. John runs his hands up Sherlock's thighs to rest on his hips. He's enjoying the sight of Sherlock's long, lean body in that position. “Is this your way of trying to convince me? Because now I might be listening.” John says. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow as John adds, “Be listening even  _more_ if we were naked though.” 

“Is that all it takes? By all means.” Sherlock replies haughtily, grabbing at the bottom of his shirt. He begins lifting it, exposing his naval before John grabs his hands. “Not here.” he murmurs. 

“Why's that? Afraid  _Pete_ might hear?” Sherlock asks, shifting his hips.

“ _God_ no.” John groans quietly, gripping Sherlock's hips once again, “Think I'd actually be  _louder_ in that case.” He lifts himself up into a sit and wraps his arms around Sherlock. “No, we don't have any  _provisions_ and I may or may not  _literally_ need you like this.” he mumbles.

“And  _that's_ the way you'd agree to further discuss the matter.” Sherlock states.

“I'd agree, but I don't believe we'd get much talking done.”

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. He grabs John's face and looks him in the eye. “I've never met a person who seemed both painfully simple and ridiculously complex before you.” he tells him point blank. John knows that—though it sounds a bit like an insult—from Sherlock, it's a compliment. So he allows a small smile to creep up onto his lips and he replies, “You're a regular  _Casanova_ .” 

“You wanted Italian, then?” Sherlock asks resignedly. John's smile turns into a grin. He's not sure he's ever had Sherlock give up. He gives Sherlock a quick peck, then nods. “Mmm. Think I'm in the mood for pasta.” 

“Celebratory pasta. Doesn't  _quite_ have the proper ring to it, does it?”

“You'd prefer something in a foreign language?”

“Only to listen to you struggle through the menu.”

  
  


  


  
  


They'd never had  _lazy_ sex before.

John had originally assumed that lazy sex happened after many, many years of marriage and kids and general life fatigue. He'd always associated it with the average forty-plus year old's, ones who'd nearly resigned on the forceful, aggressive sex of the twenty year old generation. His mind, of course, is most  _certainly_ changed by Sherlock.

He has a tendency to do that.

John's hands slide up Sherlock's thighs and grip slowly onto his hips. Sherlock smiles, a lazy smile that suits his body's languid movements quite perfectly. He rolls his hips in long, delicious strokes that cause John to groan quietly beneath him. John inhales deeply, shutting his eyes and allowing the sensation to grip him for a moment. “So,” Sherlock's voice comes from above him, “You had your meeting with your recruiter yesterday.” His words are conversational, but his voice is that low growl that shoots straight into John's spine.

“Mmm, I did.”

“And?”

“January.” John breathes, sliding a hand over to wrap around Sherlock's erection. He hears Sherlock inhale sharply, but his pace continues in the near agonizing slow-rock that John is—in truth—enjoying far too much. Sherlock gives a small moan through slightly parted lips. “January.” he repeats. John opens his eyes slowly, a half-smile coming to his lips. “Mhm.” he says, watching Sherlock's face contort with each slow stroke John gives him. His eyes are shut and his lips are still slightly parted and  _Christ_ it's attractive. 

“Three months.” Sherlock murmurs.

“Three months.” John repeats.

Sherlock's hips are beginning to move a little quicker. John braces his feet into the mattress. He watches as Sherlock tips forward, planting his hands on either side of John's head. He feels Sherlock shift his weight upon his legs, and John smirks. “Relinquishing power?” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's back. 

“Don't call it  _relinquishing power_ , my impulse is to rebel.” Sherlock replies, allowing his arms to fold. 

“I'd like to see you try.” John taunts, employing the swift motion he's mastered and rolling Sherlock to his back. He doesn't waste time, begins his long, semi-aggressive thrusts before Sherlock has a moment to speak. It's no surprise to John that Sherlock doesn't even  _attempt_ some kind of rebellion, instead swallows around whichever words he was considering and shuts his eyes. John lifts himself to his knees and presses one hand into Sherlock's hip. He's still managing to give Sherlock the long, hard strokes he knows he likes. 

“Bad man.” Sherlock mutters through clenched teeth. “Bad, bad man.”

“I could stop.” 

“You won't.”

“No?”

“You wouldn't benefit from stopping.” 

“Neither would you.”

Sherlock's legs wrap around John's waist and he smirks. “I'd  _really_ hate to force you to finish me off.” he remarks.

“You think you can do that?” John inquires, slowing his pace to a near crawl. Admittedly, it does no better for him, but he likes it when Sherlock is forced to plead on occasion. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, the heel of one foot pressing into the small of John's back, but John makes sure to keep his body stiff. He stops both his hand and his hips simultaneously. “Go on.  _Force_ me.” he commands.

Sherlock shakes his head, “One more chance.”

“Oh  _no_ , I want you to force me.”

Sherlock smirks in reply. It's a telling smirk, one that John recognizes as calculating. The calculation phase doesn't last long. Soon, Sherlock's legs are dropping from John's waist . He's propping himself up upon his elbows. He gives two quick rolls against John's hips before reaching up and grabbing him around the neck. He pulls John to his body and forces his lips over the man atop him. 

John doesn't expect, somehow, that Sherlock will flip him back over. 

And so Sherlock gets his way. Again. He rolls and lifts and shifts accordingly, all while snogging John  _straight_ into the mattress. He's even gotten hold of John's wrists, locking them in their place just beside John's head. It does, John thinks, prove problematic for Sherlock. He's left no hands for himself, but it doesn't seem to present a problem to him. John is listening to Sherlock's breathing, knows that Sherlock is getting closer and closer. 

He himself is getting closer and closer.

John's hips are beginning to move involuntarily. He isn't quite sure he's interested in proving his point anymore, but Sherlock has seemingly accepted it as a challenge. His eyes are shut and his teeth are gritted and he's emitting such  _primal_ grunts that John can't seem to help himself any longer.  His warning comes out in _some_ sort of language. He's not entirely sure if it's made any sense but Sherlock doesn't seem to be too far behind him so he lets those  _delicious_ waves roll through his limbs, his hands balling into fists and his toes curling. 

It is  _definitely_ a surprise to John to find that Sherlock has in fact come and that it is, in fact, upon his belly. They spend a moment to recollect themselves, panting hard and quivering just slightly. Both seem to feel the need to giggle. They do. 

“I didn't even think it was  _possible.”_ John confesses incredulously. 

Sherlock smirks as he carefully lifts himself from John. “Stimulation of the prostate gland has  _extremely_ profound affects on the pleasure centers of men.” he says, making his way to stand. “The average heterosexual male will  _never_ come into contact with the sort of orgasm I, personally, have just had. Quite a shame for them.” His voice lilts loftily as he makes his way to the restroom.

John is still dumbfounded when Sherlock returns. He gives John's stomach a quick cleaning before chucking the towel and sprawling out beside him. “Didn't even touch you.” John mumbles.

“Have I managed to offend you? After all, it is  _you_ who insisted I use force.”

“Offended? God no.  _I_ want to come like that.” 

“Mmm. It's quite an exercise in self-awareness,  _that_ method anyhow.” He flips onto his stomach, trapping John's arm where it lays. He flops his own over John's chest and rests his chin upon his shoulder. “Though I'm sure—if you were interested—I could manage to assist you in such a desire.” 

“I am most  _certainly_ interested.”

“I'll pencil you in. Let's discuss what you and your recruiter decided. I understand we spoke of it  _briefly_ but...” 

“Right.” He isn't particularly looking forward to discussing it. He knows the news is going to put a strain on the evening, knows Sherlock is going to be  _less than thrilled_ by the news. Though, knowing Sherlock, he's probably already figured it out. “Well. We discussed the possibility of me entering under the PQ course, since I've got just about two years at Bart's. But since I'm not  _technically_ professionally qualified yet, I can't.” he explains. He swallows around the next bit. “So, of course, I'm going in as a direct entrant.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. John can feel his breathing against his skin. He decides to go on before Sherlock can speak. “And though I've been given cadetship, I'm considering going for MSO instead of an MO. He thinks I'd be better suited for it. Better use of my skill set.” 

“How long will you be away before your first leave?” Sherlock asks.

John swallows. 

“It's... It's a bit mad, giving up cadetship. After all the erm, work I put into getting it. MSO doesn't require it.” he attempts to segue. He can feel Sherlock's eyes burning into his face. His jaw clenched and he shuts his eyes. “Direct entrant's have to take a forty-four week course.” he mumbles, “Possibility of leave sometime in the summer but it's not ensured.”

Sherlock's body stiffens instantly. John shifts onto his side and wraps his arm around the man beside him. He runs his hand along Sherlock's side and sighs. They're face to face. Sherlock has that look of unbiased indifference upon his face. Which, naturally, means he's fighting off the urge to fly into some sort of emotional disaster. “I see.” he says after a moment. 

“From what I know, it's based on how well you've been doing during training or... or something similar.”

“Right.”

“Sherlock, you don't...” he trails off. He's expected Sherlock to interrupt him but Sherlock is very still. He shuts his eyes and—after a moment—turns his body to face John. He slides his arm around his waist and swallows quietly. John isn't sure how to reply. He holds Sherlock close and searches his face, but any sign of tension has been completely wiped away. “We'll be alright.” John says quietly. Sherlock nods minutely, and blindly presses a kiss to John's lips. He still doesn't speak. It makes John more nervous than had he been raving. John wets his lips and inhales slowly. “What are you thinking right now?” he asks Sherlock's serene face. 

Sherlock makes no movement.

“Sherlock.” 

Still nothing. John shifts, moving closer until their bodies are touching. “I know you're thinking something. You're always thinking something.” he goes on. Sherlock takes a deep breath, holds it momentarily in his chest, then exhales slowly. He still says nothing, but his fingertips begin dragging up and down John's back. John exhales quietly. “I wish you'd say something.” he murmurs.

“What would you like me to say?” Sherlock speaks finally.

“Whatever you're thinking? If I've learned anything about you, I've learned you aren't a casual observer.” 

Sherlock finally opens his eyes. He brings his hand to a stop at John's shoulder. “There's a slew of things I could say.” he admits. “None of which I'm going to. For once, I'm thinking of others emotions. You should be feeling  _gratitude_ that I'm not spewing my thoughts everywhere.” He shuts his eyes once again. “I'm acting completely out of my element and keeping a  _positive outlook_ by recalling that we've still three entire months before such a thing occurs.” 

“We do. Three months. I'm yours for the next three months.” John agrees.

“Has a date been set for your departure?” 

John swallows again. “They're debating. It'll either be the tenth or...” he trails off.

Sherlock's sighs quietly. “Or the third.”

“I'm trying to make sure—“

“John, my birthday isn't a reason to delay the inevitable.”

“I—“

“If you insist upon celebrating it, we'll do so before your departure.” Sherlock states with finality. He looks to John, who must have his emotions written blatantly across his face, because Sherlock looks concerned for a moment. He brings his hand to John's cheek and swallows. “I can't believe I'm the one to say this, but we should be  _enjoying_ each others company while we have it.” He gives him John a gentle kiss. He scoots downward slightly and nuzzles his face into his neck. “Now, you continue to absently trace letters into my back and I'll silently decipher the messages you're leaving.” 

John smiles, cheeks tinting pink. “Should've known you'd catch on.”

“Perhaps some different messages this time. Though I appreciate the constant love declaration, it's become quite redundant. It'll be forever etched into my skin at the rate in which you write it.” 

“All goes according to plan.”

“No need to leave  _physical_ evidence.”

“No? Leaves out a few of the fetishes I was thinking we should give a go.” 

“Now, let's not be too hasty, John...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a few things should be noted:
> 
> 1\. I have attempted to join any branch of military service.  
> 2\. I have never attempted to join the RAMC.
> 
> Therefore, if their are inaccuracies in this process, my apologies. We'll just pretend that other things have changed in my lovely alternate universe, besides just our favorite characters story. :]


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

John rubs his face as he walks into the chill of the autumn afternoon. He's just gotten out of a ridiculously long lecture, one which he's certain he's already completely forgotten. It's what he gets for  _not sleeping,_ but he's hardly upset by it. After all, evenings spent with Sherlock always left him  _quite_ ecstatic. 

He grabs out his mobile from his pocket and is shocked to find he's got messages. A few messages. Eyebrow quirked, he calls up and punches in his passcode. He turns down the familiar streets, making his way toward his flat, when Sherlock's voice comes on the line. “John, I know you're in class but... I need you to call me. The moment you receive this. It's urgent.” John's brow's furrow at the message. He decides to listen to the other messages before he calls Sherlock back—it'll only be a few seconds. As the next begins to play, however, he realizes it's Sherlock once again.

“Urgent, John. Extremely.” 

As it happens, it seems as though each of the six messages waiting for him are from Sherlock. His voice becomes more and more frantic as the messages are received. 

“Good God it can't possibly be that interesting. I... Sod it.” 

“No I can't. I can't just  _sod it._ Damn. John, call. Please.”

“How long is this bloody class? John, I  _need_ you to call me.”

“I'm trying desperately John. It's becoming more difficult.” 

“John I  _need you.”_

_“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”_

John is unnerved. So much so that he doesn't bother going back to his flat. Instead, he scans the streets, hailing the nearest taxi cab he can find and climbing inside. He recites Sherlock's address reflexively and sits back. 

When he arrives at the familiar building, he's all but worked himself up into a frenzy. He's attempted calling Sherlock a few times, but has received no answer each time. He's beginning to think the worst as he takes the steps two at a time, practically throwing himself at the locked door. “Sherlock?” he's already begun calling. His hands, he's realized, are quivering as he digs into his pockets for his keys. “Sherlock, open the door.” he calls. He doesn't need to, has already shoved the key into the lock and is turning it over.

“Sherlock, what's going on? I tried to call you back.” He tells the sitting room. His eyebrows furrow as he shuts the door behind him, “But you weren't answering. Sher—“ 

His thought is interrupted by a quick rustling, coming from the bedroom. His head snaps toward it, and his body follows a moment later. The door is nearly closed, nothing but a crack revealing the interior. John walks slowly. His heart is hammering in his chest. “Sherlock?” he calls out. He sees a silhouette cross the room from the small opening in the door. “Sherlock.” he calls, more sternly. 

Suddenly, the door flies open. 

Sherlock stands in the doorway. He's in a dressing gown. His chest is heaving and his eyes are wild and  _God damn it_ he looks completely manic. John notices a moment later that Sherlock is bleeding. It's coming from somewhere on his arm, and it's running in thin trails down his fingers. It isn't until a drop hits the floor does John snap to. “What in the  _hell_ happened?” he asks. There are a lot of emotions and thoughts coursing through him right now, but terror and rage seem to be predominant. Sherlock strides forward, heading toward the kitchen. He speaks quickly, words buzzing in his mouth, “I've decided to conduct an experiment involving the coagulation rate of blood while the blood in question is exposed to a variety of different chemicals. The rate of blood that's not been tampered with is fairly common-knowledge and I felt that it might prove helpful for future instances, different cases in which victims have been—“ 

“You haven't.” John says quietly.

Sherlock's head snaps to face John. “Haven't? Haven't what? Oh, yes. Distracted. I needed a distraction. I distracted myself.” His eyes quickly move back to the samples he's laid out on the kitchen counter. He brings his hands behind his back and he leans forward to study one. John's jaw clenches. He shuts his eyes. “You couldn't... you couldn't just  _wait_ , just a  _little_ longer?” he asks.

“What? No. I couldn't  _wait._ I don't  _wait._ You know as well as I do that I'm nothing if not impatient. I couldn't be bothered to wait.”

“I was in class! You know what time it lets out.” 

“I refuse to have this conversation.” 

Sherlock says this with the finality John is used to halting at. John knows that he's embarrassed, knows he's attempting to shrug off the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. John refuses to stop. “And I refuse to allow you to keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock.” 

“You haven't a choice in the matter.”

“Oh?” John feels heat creeping up his neck and into his face. “So, that's it then? I get no opinion on what happens to you?” he asks hotly. Sherlock turns to look at him once again. John plants his feet, preparing himself. “I get  _no say_ in what happens to the only man I've ever loved? That what you're saying?” 

“Stop being so melodramatic.” Sherlock demands.

“ _Melodramatic?_ You choose to  _ruin_ yourself for a bit of a distraction but  _I'm_ the one who's being melodramatic?” 

“John.” Sherlock warns.

“No, Sherlock. No. I'm not... I'm not stepping back and just  _allowing_ you to do this.” 

“You. Haven't. A choice.” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. 

John shakes his head, arms crossing over his chest. “It must be  _beautiful_ to be able to just  _turn off_ any bloody emotion for another person, it must be  _brilliant._ I mean, I've only decided to include you in  _every_ aspect of my life, even the ones you may not think you should be included in.” He gives a sardonic sort of laugh, sarcastic and icy at the edges. Sherlock's jaw clenches. “If I were doing something that  _you_ thought may be—oh, I don't know— _life threatening_ , I'd shut the hell up and listen to you.”

“You already  _are_ doing something I consider to be  _life threatening,_ but I've accepted that despite my best wishes, you'll be doing it anyway.”

“Am I? What's that, Sherlock?”

“Don't be so  _obvious_ John. You know what.”

John pauses.  _Oh_ . He understands. John scoffs, shaking his head. “You're doing this because I'm  _going to the Army?_ You can't possibly be serious.” he says incredulously. Sherlock rolls his eyes, turning back to the samples. “How very  _vain_ of you. No, I partook because I needed a distraction. I was merely reminding you that I'm  _not_ the only one in this  _relationship_ who is ignoring the others wishes.” he grumbles. He leans over the samples once again and John is baffled. “You  _told_ me to go. You  _said—“_

Sherlock stands, a sound of exasperation leaving him as he does so. “You've never  _supported_ someones decision because you were aware it was their desire? Who was I to tell you  _not_ to go, John? How would such a conversation have affected our relationship? You'd have  _resented_ me, John.” He spits this quickly over his shoulder. 

“I wouldn't have  _resented_ you, I would've appreciated that you  _cared_ enough to have an opinion.” 

“How long would that have lasted? The novelty of the idea would've worn off the moment you realized what my opinion stood in between.” 

“I wanted to discuss this, Sherlock. I wanted to sit down and talk about it.”

“As did I. I seem to recall you had  _other_ ideas.”

John shakes his head. “No, you didn't want to  _discuss_ it. You had a speech you wanted to recite, and you wanted me to accept it. That's not a discussion.” He can feel his voice growing louder. “And this isn't about me, this isn't about RAMC, this is about  _you_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock growls as he swings around. He looks frustrated and exasperated and a little bit helpless with blood smeared all over his hands. “I hid nothing, John. There were never any real surprises, nothing you weren't well aware of from the beginning.” he says loudly. He's beginning to stalk over to John. His voice is growing in volume. “You knew of my persona, knew of my problems, knew that I am—though I regret to admit it—a  _slave_ to my addictions.” There is a pause in which he seems to attempt to recollect himself. “I gave you fair warning, if you recall. I  _explained_ the entire situation. If it was going to be a  _problem_ , John, you should've considered that before.” 

“Of course it was going to be a bloody problem!” John explodes. “But I figured I could help! I figured if  _maybe_ you cared enough, about me, about us, about this—“ He waves his hands between the two of them, “—that it might be a good bloody start!”

“It doesn't  _work_ that way, John. This is what I meant.” Sherlock is beginning to sound resigned. “Do you remember? You said you intended to be whatever I allowed you.  _I told you_ that I would make you necessary, and I  _have.”_ He makes to grab John's shoulders, but there's blood still on his hands and John's body reacts without his consent. He takes a step back. Sherlock's jaw tenses as he drops his hands. “You believed you were  _helping._ You may have made matters  _worse.”_

_“_ How do you—“

“You! I've become dependent on you! I need you to distract me, to keep me sane, to keep me on the same  _plane_ as the rest of this God-forsaken planet. Don't you see?” His voice has raised once again. “You! You're the distraction now!  _You're_ the drug of choice! I drop one, I gain another. I couldn't have  _you,_ I instinctively moved on to the next.”

John is silent. He's allowing Sherlock's words to settle in his mind. They're ringing in his head and bouncing around in his skull and John is feeling a mix of emotions, ones that seem to begin and end in guilt. They're both in a stare down, it seems, waiting for the other to blink. John can't think of a response, not in that moment. It comes to him in slow, quiet words. “Do you... do you just expect me to  _drop everything_ and come to your aid?”

Sherlock huffs a sad laugh. He nods, shrugging his shoulders and looking apathetic. “Logically, no. But in those moments, John? Yes. That's exactly what's expected.”

“You have to know I can't—“

“ _Logically_ , I do. But my mind doesn't wrap around  _logic_ when I'm in need, John. It goes to base instincts.”

John is quiet. He hates the thoughts going through his mind, the ones screaming that maybe he should abandon ship. Maybe he should end this now, while he was here and could do it in person and... no. He pushes the thoughts away, drives them from his mind. All he wants is to see Sherlock at his best. All he wants is for Sherlock to be himself, the brilliant, ridiculous, eccentric, arrogant love of his life. Sherlock needs him? Then he'll use himself. “Do you love me?” John asks sternly.

Sherlock's brows furrow. He nods.

“You care about me, then? Wouldn't want to run the risk of losing me, yeah?” 

Sherlock hesitates a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, but he nods. 

John swallows. He tilts his chin up and straightens his back. He looks Sherlock directly in his eyes. “Then know this,” He takes a deep breath, “If I see you like this again—strung out, on one—I'll...” His jaw clenches and he swallows again. “I'll leave.” 

Sherlock's face goes blank.

“I'll... I'll leave. For good. It'll hurt, and I'll hate every moment of it, but I'm not going to stand about and  _watch_ you run yourself into the ground.” He pauses. He watches Sherlock's face. He goes on, “And it won't be just some... some  _line_ I've said to get you to behave, Sherlock. It's a promise.” 

Sherlock says nothing. His face is blank and his arm has stopped bleeding and he could very well have turned to stone in the time of John's words. John's heart is racing, drumming around in his chest, more than likely unattached. He wants a response, a reaction,  _something_ that'll prove his threat is of value. He waits. Finally, Sherlock swallows. His jaw clenches tightly. He gives a short, nearly imperceptible nod. The muscles in John's body seem to release slightly. “You understand, then?” John asks.

Sherlock nods.

“I want to hear you say it.” John demands.

Sherlock swallows. His voice, naturally confident and bordering on arrogant, is much quieter than usual. “I understand.” he says. He doesn't meet John's eyes, instead takes to looking around the room with his jaw firmly clenched. John releases the breath he's accidentally been holding in his lungs. He takes a step forward and takes Sherlock by the shoulder. “I—I want to help, Sherlock. I want you to be—“

“I understand.” Sherlock repeats.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to continue loving you for a long while.”

“I understand.” 

“Do you? Do you  _really?”_

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He holds it in his lungs for a few seconds before finally releasing it with a breathy “Yes.” They finally meet eyes. Something passes through them, silent and all-consuming, and John feels something that doesn't quite settle right. It sits upon his stomach uncomfortably and waits for realization to strike him. It doesn't move aside.

“Right.” John says finally. He turns Sherlock and gives the small of his back a gentle push. “Let's erm, let's clean you up a bit.” he says as lightly as he can. “You look like you've been in a murder scene.”

“It was for my experiment.” Sherlock replies, a strange, dim quality to his voice. “I needed samples and the neighbours weren't so willing.” 

“You didn't actually  _ask_ the neighbours, did you?”

“Just the one. Don't think they'll be popping by for a  _drinks_ thing any time soon.”

“No major arteries or anything, right? I'd feel like a tit if I just spent all this time arguing with you while—“

“Don't be daft. I wasn't attempting  _suicide.”_

“Never said you were, Sherlock. Never said you were.”

  
  


 

  


Two days before Christmas, and John can't think of a single thing to get for Sherlock.

The man is many things, but superficial is not one of them. John has gone through lists and lists of things one might normally buy a lover for such a holiday, but for  _Sherlock?_ The idea of gift shopping nearly seems irrational. He's already packed away the gifts he's bought for his parents and siblings, but Sherlock seems to be a mystery to him. And now that his deadline has come, his mind has decided to work  _extra_ hard attempting to figure it out. As though he could simply rush out at the very moment a perfect gift idea sprang up and buy it. 

They'd both agreed that it would be  _then_ that they would “celebrate” Christmas, as neither of them would be available the day of (family obligations). 

He looks down to the man sprawled on the floor. Sherlock's eyes are wide open and he's staring at the ceiling. He's barely breathing, it looks like. John knows he's lost in thought, can only imagine the colorful diagrams that are probably unfolding in his head. He wonders casually if Sherlock has gotten him anything. If he has, Sherlock has made no mention of it. 

He exhales quietly. He'd rather be spending his Christmas with Sherlock. He wishes quite suddenly that his parents  _did_ know of his relationship. He'd like to show off his brilliant, ridiculous boyfriend, with all his angles and skin and arrogance. Suddenly, nothing would make him happier. “Maybe you should come home with me.” he says, breaking the comfortable silence that had formed.

Sherlock's eyebrow quirks. He turns his head slowly and gives John a once-over. “Not a wise idea.” he replies.

“What's the worst that can happen? They kick me out?”

“I'd rather not be a surprise visitor.” Sherlock says with finality, turning back to the ceiling. His hands steeple at his lips, “Makes for too much tension. Not  _quite_ the atmos desired for the holiday season.” 

John slides down from the couch and crawls toward Sherlock. He lays his head upon Sherlock's stomach, then reaches up for his hands. “They'd be amiable enough. I know that. After all, Harry's brought home a few since she came out. They're always on their best behaviour.” 

He feels Sherlock sigh. He sighs as well, laying Sherlock's hand over his mouth. He knows he won't be convincing Sherlock of anything, but he feels compelled to try, at the very least. “John, had it been any other Christmas, perhaps I'd have agreed.” Sherlock's voice comes from his left. John shuts his eyes and slides his lips along Sherlock's palm. “However, as you'll be leaving rather soon, this is to be the one time they're to have you about as you are now. It'll be  _emotional._ If I were to join you, they'd instantly resent me, as I would be  _intruding._ ” 

“As I am now.” John glances up to watch Sherlock's chin.

“Relatively unscathed by the  _harsh_ realities of the world.”

“They aren't that daft.”

“It isn't a matter of intelligence.” Sherlock replies. “This is a  _sentimental_ view. You're the younger. You have—until now—lead a fairly commonplace life. And now you're shipping off to be a doctor. An army doctor, no less. Where all that assumed naivety will vanish.” He slips his hand from John's mouth and rests it upon his neck. He doesn't say anything more. John rolls himself over, shifting until he's face to face with Sherlock. “For someone who doesn't understand  _sentiment_ , you're very  _aware_ of it.”

“I am as  _aware_ as I need to be.”

“Understanding my parents  _possible_ thought process is a necessity?”

“Yes.”

John shakes his head. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips. “Just when I think I've got you figured out, you go and change up on me.” he murmurs. Sherlock smirks, bringing his hand to the back of John's head. “I prefer to keep you sharp.” he says quietly. They allow a moment of silence to pass through them, one in which they seem to simply observe the face before them. John hasn't thought about the idea of not seeing it for nearly a year. He doesn't allow himself to. It is, he's found, too painful to even let flit in passing.

He sighs, touching his forehead to Sherlock's. “I haven't got you a gift.” he admits.

He can feel Sherlock's eyebrow quirk. “I didn't think you had.”

“Does that make me a crap boyfriend?” 

“Had this been a typical relationship, one in which I were—perhaps—a stereotypical, superficial  _dolt_ , then it could be reasoned that you might be.” Sherlock murmurs. John shuts his eyes and allows a tiny smile to come to his lips as Sherlock continues, “However, as we've both come to terms with the idea that I take little pleasure in material possessions, I can safely assure you that—in my  _professional_ opinion—you are far from such.” 

“You always know just what to say.”

“I only ever speak the truth.”

“Now that's a lie, isn't it?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, giving John's hair a quick tug before sliding his hand to his own stomach. “It won't surprise you, then, that the gift I intend on giving  _you_ wasn't purchased.” he mumbles. John lifts his head to meet Sherlock's eyes, brows furrowed. “You got me something?”

“It's a bit more of an  _intimate_ gift.”

“Now I feel like a dick.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

John quirks an eyebrow. Sherlock allows his lips to curl into a wicked little half-smile that John has grown to love. “You'll be pleased to know that my gift to  _you_ can easily become your gift to  _me_ as well.” He shuts his eyes. John watches Sherlock's hand move upward from the corner of his eye, until he's delicately touching John's jaw. He smirks. “Is a good shag considered a Chrimbo gift if it's the only type of shag we have?” 

“You believe I'd relegate a  _gift_ to something as simple as a  _good shag?_ I'm very nearly insulted.” 

“Does that mean it's going to be a  _great_ shag, or that I've completely missed the innuendo?” 

Sherlock is drawing circles into John's jaw. He's still wearing that smile. “The gift I intend on giving you is...  _awareness,_ we'll say.” he murmurs. John's brows furrow, though Sherlock can't see it. “An awareness of what the body is capable of. Or perhaps awareness that the body is  _always_ capable of something unexpected.” he continues. He lets his finger drag itself downward, over John's throat and into his clavicle. “Whichever you prefer.”

“Sounds like you're giving me a life lesson.” John replies finally.

“One that you may use from time to time. Wrapped up, of course, in a brilliant night of sexual debauchery.” 

“ _Sexual debauchery._ I like where this is heading.”

“Would you prefer your gift now, or shall we roast chestnuts first?”

“Sod the chestnuts. Don't even  _like_ chestnuts.” 

  
  


**

  
  


He has been instructed  _not_ to touch himself. 

It's very difficult, under the circumstances. Everything seems to be touching him in a slew of different ways, ones he can't quite describe. Sherlock's body is pressed completely against his, from their shoulders to the back of John's knees. Sherlock's arm is wrapped around John's chest, his long fingers are splayed across John's throat. But John understands the necessity of keeping his hands off himself. This time, he understands, is something like an  _experiment._ One that, he ventures, will benefit  _him_ much more than Sherlock.

He hasn't quite gotten used to the feeling of something being inside of him. Not in this way, not in such an  _intimate_ fashion. He understands, however, the crap cliches he's seen in bad romance novels. No matter how far  _in_ someone is, it never seems to be enough. The body seems to instinctively yearn for more and more. It isn't something he ever expected to realize, but he does and it jolts his stomach in an unidentifiable way. 

Sherlock's breath is on the back of his neck. He's shifting slightly, moving the hand that was once trapped beneath his side to slip beneath John, to press against his stomach. He pulls him somehow closer still, adjusting, changing angles. He rolls his hips tortuously slow, taking his time, feeling John out, as it were. And suddenly John  _feels_ it. He gasps at the sensation, the perfect slide of Sherlock hitting him  _just right._

Sherlock chuckles low in his throat. 

John cannot touch himself, so instead he reaches back and digs his fingers into Sherlock's side. Sherlock's thrusting is long and slow and  _precise_ , as though he's figured out the exact degree of the angle that has caused John to react in such a way. John thinks, for a moment, that he probably has, because it is a continuous feeling, touched  _perfectly_ over and over and over again. 

Words have seemingly escaped him. He can feel Sherlock's mouth on the back of his neck, can feel his tongue and teeth and breath smashing into his skin with every new roll of his hips. He shuts his eyes and allows his body to study each sensation on its own. He memorizes the slick feeling of Sherlock's body, dampened with sweat, rubbing against his back. He notes the way Sherlock's calves feel, rubbing and entwining themselves around his own. How his fingers shift, curling around his throat, sliding down to his collar, gripping tight. The time between each puff of breath. The small, quiet sounds that escape him.

John grips Sherlock's thigh. He's begun to move just slightly quicker, a much needed occurrence for both of them, it seems. 

Sherlock's hand travels down and grabs hold of John's hip. “ _John.”_ he groans into his neck.

“Yes,  _yes.”_

“You're—“

“ _Close.”_

Sherlock releases a breathy moan, keeps his hips rocking at that  _precise_ angle. John is tempted,  _so_ tempted to grab himself, to bring himself there in those very familiar ways, and it's as though Sherlock senses this. He grabs John's hand and entwines their fingers, forcing them to John's chest. He gives just one fairly forceful thrust. And John feels it,  _that_ feeling, that all-too-familiar, very much  _welcomed_ feeling that builds up and up and up. Only it's more,  _so much more_ than he could ever possibly have thought. It is a blinding sensation, one that causes bright lights to seemingly flash before his eyes. It is his words, the ones he could've  _sworn_ were English, churning and twisting and becoming something completely unrecognizable to himself. Sherlock is sinking his teeth into John's shoulder, and John can hear himself whimpering at the combined feelings of  _everything_ , but he cannot for the life of him control himself.

All without a single touch.

He doesn't realizes he's shaking until Sherlock places a firm, steadying palm against his chest. But he is. With every breath he takes, he's shuddering just a little, and his body is quivering minutely. He swallows, attempting to regain his breath. “Alright?” Sherlock's voice asks just beside his ear.

He can't speak for a moment, is still a bit too dizzy. He can think to do nothing more than to giggle and nod. Sherlock releases a quiet laugh, pressing a tender kiss to the back of John's ear. “Shall I assume that's a yes?” he murmurs.

John's voice comes back to him. “Quite right.” he replies, a little breathless.

“Astounding, don't you think? The capabilities of the human body.” Sherlock asks quietly.

“I'm astounded more and more everyday. How'd you learn to do that, anyway?”

“Recreational research.”

“You did research on how to come without—“

“Yes.”

“But your past experiences...” 

Sherlock squeezes him tighter, nuzzles his head into the crook of John's neck. “Quite some time after that. I'd call it more a  _recent_ study.” He inhales quietly and exhales very slowly. John's nerves are still tingling. He can all but feel every pore reacting to Sherlock's breath. The overwhelming thought occurs to him once again, the one that reminds him that—in just under two weeks—he'll be parting from Sherlock for nearly a year. He tries to push it down, attempts to bury it, but it crashes into him the moment Sherlock begins to untangle himself from John.

John clings to Sherlock's hand. He turns to look at him over his shoulder. “Going somewhere?” he asks, attempting to sound casual. He knows his voice has deceived him though, the moment that he meets Sherlock's eyes. They are creased, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He looks concerned, just slightly. “I'd like to clean up a bit.” he replies simply. “Bit uncomfortable.” 

John releases his hand. “Right.” 

Sherlock quirks a suspicious eyebrow before standing properly. John is glad for the darkness of the room, thankful for the moon being the only source of light. He knows he's begun to tint pink in the cheeks, and that's  _embarrassing,_ extremely so. He hopes he can quell it before Sherlock returns. 

“What time is your sister coming round?” Sherlock's reappearance in the room causes John to jump. He turns over to meet Sherlock's semi-confused gaze. “And by coming round, I did mean to  _your_ flat. I assume that's where she'll be picking you up from.” he continues after a moment. He decides to hand John the towel, allows him to clean himself up. “Oh. Erm. Right. She said she'd be round about nine.” John replies, sitting upright. “But if I know her at all, that means closer to noon.”

“I guess the question is, should I be looking to gather myself  _now_ to take you back, or can it wait until morning?” Sherlock asks, flopping gracelessly into the mattress. John allows his eyes to travel over him quickly. He smiles as he does so. “Erm... well, depends on you.” he says, finally looking back to Sherlock's face. He's smirking. John rolls his eyes and chucks the towel away. “Didn't you say... what's your brother's name, Mycroft, isn't it? Didn't you say he was picking you up  _personally_ ?”

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly at the thought. “Thinks I can't be trusted to follow through and make the journey.” he grumbles. “He's right though, I wouldn't. Not if it could be helped.”

“Am I ever going to meet your brother?” John inquires casually. 

“Not if I can help it.” 

“He can't be all that bad.” 

Sherlock shoots him a look. John doesn't say anything more. He decides, instead, to lay out beside Sherlock, entrapping his arm beneath him. They lay quietly for a long while, it seems, enjoying the body beside them. John is watching Sherlock. No, not watching. Studying him. He's already memorized every aspect of the man he lays next to, but he wants it engraved into his skull. The shape of his lips and the curl of his hair, the length of his neck and the dip of his collar bones. He needs to know everything, from every angle. Or at least, he wants to. It's he who finally speaks. “Thank you.” he says quietly.

Sherlock shoots a side glance at him. “For?” he asks.

“Christmas present.” John replies with a smile. “Best I've gotten in a long, long while.”

“And before that?”

“The Action Man I really, really wanted one year. Broke a few days later.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I beat out Action Man.”

“By a long shot.”

He turns to face John, resting his palm against John's back. “Then I must admit, I'm pleased my gift was worthy of such a coveted spot.” 

“It'll definitely be tops for a while to come.”

“Then I'll be remembered fondly.”

“Every time. That you can be assured of.” 

 

  


  
  


Shock is the first thing to grip him.

It hits him instantly, smacks into him as though he's just run into a brick wall. Complete shock. So shocked, he forgets where he is, forgets his own name, momentarily. Forgets how to breathe. It is complete annihilation on his entire body, for that split second. The next thing to come... well, it's not just one thing. It's a terrible mix of emotions, none of them too thrilled. It's an insane whirlwind of anger and hurt and confusion. It spins around his head like a cyclone, dizzying him, making him very nearly  _physically_ sick. And then it settles itself, plucks just one of the emotions to lead the rest of them in. 

Rage.

Rage is what comes out of all of it. Blinding rage. Throbbing, blinding, bellowing rage that he will  _not_ be able to simply stamp down and store away. It grabs hold of him and possesses him and takes over for that frightful moment, when he slams the door and begins shouting his string of obscenities. When he says all those things he doesn't mean, not really, not if he were being rational about it. 

By the time he can hear himself, he's settled into hurt. Devastating pain in his chest that flows outward into his limbs like... well, much like what he imagines the drug is doing in Sherlock's veins. 

“You... I can't...” His sentences don't even seem to make much sense, not anymore. They form in his head and yet, by the time they reach his mouth, they've all but disintegrated. Sherlock is watching him lazily, slowly breaking down the syringe he's pulled from his arm. He doesn't say anything, doesn't look very phased by John's emotional roller coaster.

John wants to punch him. Wants to ball his fist up and lay a few into his mouth. But the thought of punching Sherlock... God, it makes him sicker than he already feels. 

“How long?” he manages finally.

“Hmm?” Sherlock drawls from the couch.

“How long have you been... using this?” He gestures toward the syringe Sherlock is putting away. Sherlock's eyes travel slowly to it, then back to John. “It's not my favorite, I'll admit.” he says. “I don't partake of it quite as often. Slows me down, quite a bit. Don't like being slowed down too often.” His motions are lofty, as though he's only just barely got control of his body. 

“That wasn't my question, Sherlock.” John replies through gritted teeth.

“Ah, no. Wasn't, was it? You asked how long I've been using this.” Sherlock stands. “Probably because you've only ever caught me on my  _drug of choice._ Heroine... well, I'd estimate about the same amount of time. Though never as frequently. Has a nasty backlash I'm not quite a fan of.” His voice is slow and lazy and John  _hates_ it, hates it with every fiber of his being. It is  _not_ Sherlock that he is listening to. “But on occasion, it does the job and does it well. Just what the...  _doctor_ ordered, if you will.” He says this with a smirk.

“How  _dare_ you.” John growls. It comes out before he has a moment to think about it. 

“ _How dare_ _I?_ You have a small affinity for  _theatrics_ , don't you, John?” Sherlock sounds bemused. 

“How  _could_ you? After... after all that.” John's voice is begging despite his best wishes. He wants to keep strong and be the larger man, but he is crumbling under emotion he wasn't prepared for. Not then, not the day before he  _leaves,_ for fuck's sake. Sherlock's eyes narrow. His eyebrow quirks. He's still wearing that god-forsaken  _smirk_ and John is torn. He  _loves_ that smirk, in all its playful, arrogant glory. But now then, not at that moment. Right then, he wants to wipe it off of his face in the  _worst_ possible way. He hasn't  _earned_ the right to smirk like that.

Sherlock shakes his head. “You don't get it, do you?” he drawls. 

“Get what?”

Sherlock's shoulders shrug lazily. “It  _doesn't matter.”_

John's brows furrow. “What doesn't?”

Sherlock's hand flaps lazily between him and John. “This. Any of this.” He whirls his hand around the room dramatically and lets it flop back to his side. “What did you think, John? That you would leave and I'd just  _be okay?_ That I'd suddenly find solace in the mundane workings of  _everyday living_ just because  _you asked me to?”_ He releases an unpleasant huff of a laugh. “Because you  _love_ me _?_ And that's supposed to be  _enough?”_

John's eyes narrow. His mouth is parted slightly, as though he's getting ready to say something, but nothing seems to feel right. Plenty of words sit on his tongue, ones that he wants to say, ones that he probably shouldn't say, but none of them flutter into the room. He is left in pure silence. Sherlock flops into the couch again, as though the act of standing is too much work. Words finally come to John. “Why tell me then.” he says, “Why tell me that you  _would_ , Sherlock. A man of your word, why would  _you_ tell me—”

“Because I am naïve.”

“You? Naïve?” John exhales a sardonic laugh. His heart is breaking. “The  _last_ thing you are, Sherlock, is naïve. That I know.  _That,_ at the very least, I can attest to.”

“I am human, John.”

“I never said you weren't.” 

“Then stop placing me upon a pedestal.” Sherlock's voice has a vicious edge to it. His jaw clenches. “I am, as I have mentioned before, a slave to my addictions. I am, and I will be for a long time to come.”

“No.” John shakes his head, swallowing. “No, you're not. You're making  _excuses._ Sherlock, you're brilliant. You have the ability to outwit...  _anyone_ . Even yourself, if you would allow it.” 

“Stop it.”

“I'm being serious.”

“ _This_ is what I just asked you to  _stop_ doing.” Sherlock is all angles, all jagged and sharp and mean. John can see the transformation, the pointy edges, coming out, ready for battle. “You seem to think I'm well above the rest of the planet, John. Perhaps in some respects, I am. Have I a superior intellect than the average bystander? Yes, more than likely. Can I deduce a person's character within thirty seconds of  _seeing_ them? I am confident I can. Am I super human?” His voice is ice cold. “ _No._ I am not above anything. I do not make excuses, I see rationality. I understand that I have done this to  _myself,_ I am the only one at fault for what I have done to myself.” He stops. He takes a deep breath.

John waits. 

“You cannot  _fix_ me.” Sherlock says. He says it with finality.

John holds his breath. He shakes his head. Tears are trying to spring to his eyes, but he's keeping them at bay. Barely. He feels blinding hatred for everything. For the inventor of Sherlock's addictions, for the person who showed them to Sherlock. Blind hatred for those who ever made Sherlock feel like his only way out was through them. For Sherlock, who could be so completely  _daft,_ who could believe that the only way to keep himself from self-exploding was to do it. For the army, for Bart's, for that night in the middle of the street, that felt so long ago. 

He feels it sting him to the core, though, the blind hatred he seems to feel for  _himself._

It is tumbling around with guilt. He hates that he was naïve enough to believe he was enough, hates that he spent so much time caring, hates that Sherlock  _doesn't._ He hates that he allowed himself to fall for such a  _fucked up_ person, such a self-destructive man. He hates that he didn't just bloody  _look both ways_ before crossing the street. 

But worse than that, he hates that he has to do it.

It cuts him horribly, cuts him as Sherlock goes on a tangent about how  _love_ wasn't enough, how  _sentiment_ wasn't a cure all. He knows though. He understands.  _He's_ not enough. Not for Sherlock. A man like Sherlock needs brilliance in return, someone who can carry his weight and their own. Sherlock is young and reckless and one day, John hopes, he will understand how to balance himself. He hopes that eventually, Sherlock will find something or someone that will do that for him. 

But he gets it. 

It breaks his heart and he's got to swallow back every piece of emotion that he has, but he  _gets it._

“Stop.” he tells Sherlock. His voice is quiet. He is feeling emotionally drained already. Sherlock doesn't stop talking, continues lamenting over and over about the same points he's already made. John swallows again. He shuts his eyes. He thinks of moonlit silhouettes and those genuine smiles. He thinks of his eyes and his ribs and the way his stomach would dip in when he was laying flat on his back. He has to think of those times, because... well. 

“Sherlock, stop. Stop talking.” he says this louder, but his voice cracks while he does it. Sherlock halts mid-sentence and stares at him. He swallows again. He takes a deep breath. He wets his lips. “I told you that it was a  _promise.”_ he says quietly. He lets the words sink in. He has to, more for himself than for Sherlock. “I told you that if you were strung out, on one, again... that I'd...” he trails off. His mouth has gone dry again. He swallows but it seems to scratch his throat. 

“You'd what, John.” Sherlock's voice is somber. It's as though he's sobered instantly. It hurts John even more.

“I told you I'd leave.” He shoves the words from his mouth and they make him want to lay down. The room becomes filled with tension, palpable enough to devour whole. He's biting back the desire to rush at Sherlock, to go back on his own word, to just tell him to stop being an  _idiot_ and let him love him properly. But he can't. He is a man of his word. And he made a promise. He clenches his jaw. “I can only hope—“ he chokes momentarily on his words, enough that he stops speaking. Sherlock is silent. Sherlock is still.

“I can only hope that, if you  _ever_ decide to look back on what we had, that you remember it fondly.” Tears spring to his eyes once again, ones that he can't seem to hold back any longer. “Because know this, Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't  _lying_ when I told you I loved you. Never once. And know that I'm not lying  _now_ when I remind you that I  _definitely_ still do.” He's trying desperately to keep his voice steady. “But I  _cannot_ watch you do this to yourself. I  _cannot_ go off for just about a year and spend  _every waking moment_ wondering if this is what you're doing. I  _can't.”_

Sherlock still hasn't said anything. 

“I  _know_ that you can do better than this. And I know that—deep down—you know that you can do better than this.” He shakes his head. He looks down at the floor. “But it's obvious that I'm not the person or  _thing_ that's going to help you. I'm not  _enough._ ” 

Sherlock speaks finally. He says one word. “John.”

John shakes his head again. He raises his hand for silence. Sherlock obliges.

“It's—it's alright. I'll survive. You'll survive. We'll both get on with our lives.” John says wearily. “I'll find someone to love, you'll find solace in  _something._ We'll get older and this will feel like—like just some  _thing_ we tried while we were in Uni. A bit of experimenting,  _everyone was doing it_ type of deal.” He hates that he feels that first tear roll down his cheek. Oh,  _God_ he hates it. He hates it because he knows the others are coming and there is literally  _nothing_ he can do about it. Not a single thing. He takes a deep breath. He allows himself to finally look up to Sherlock.

Sherlock's face is blank. He should've known.

He nods, pressing his lips together as he looks away. “Right. Well then. I best be off. Hell of a day tomorrow. Shipping out and all that.” he says, clearing his throat. He clenches his jaw and turns on his heel, heading for the door. He waits for Sherlock to say something,  _anything_ , but he doesn't. And John knows, deep down somewhere, that Sherlock would have nothing to say. 

He considers for a moment turning back. Saying one last thing. Reminding Sherlock  _one last time_ that he loves him, loves him more than he can describe, will probably love him for much longer than he's just let on in his speech. But he's not sure he can manage it. Not sure the words will come out right, that he'll sound confident, that he won't just rush forward and apologize and want everything to just  _go back_ to the way things were. So he doesn't.

He does pause, just for a moment, and pulls out his keys. He slides the familiar brass one off the key ring it's been on for what feels like  _centuries_ now, and he sets it on the floor. 

Then he steps out into the familiar hallway and shuts the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least this isn't the end, right?


	10. Letters Never Sent

Sherlock,

Been a long time, hasn't it? If you're wondering, I'm alright. I'm in Afghanistan. As a Medic. It's been quite an eye opening experience. In a lot of different ways that are all a bit boring, but mostly about myself. What I'm like, what I'm willing to do for the sake of "Queen and Country" as you may have called it. It's bloody hot here. Sun always seems to be shining. It's a bit crap, if you ask me. I miss London's rain and clouds and off days, where I had a bit of an excuse to sit about and drink tea and no one would really judge me for it. 

Ah, but that's not why I'm writing, is it? Nothing can ever just be friendly these days. Not when it comes to me, to you, to us.

Guess the real reason I'm writing is... well, a bit of closure. Least that's what my mates tell me. Mates, I mean a few of the nurses I've come to hang about with. They've been a real treat, really. For me. Women are a lot easier to talk to than I ever thought. Well, I guess it makes a difference when you aren't trying to chat them up. Anyway, they mentioned that the best way to "get over" someone is by writing a letter. You spill all your guts into this letter, say everything you always meant to say and then? Well... then you burn it. That way, you've said everything you wanted to say, addressed to the person they needed to be said to, but they never have to see it. You never have to get the backlash of telling a person they're a bit of a prick or that their nose was ugly or that you spent most of your time wanting to hit them for being stroppy. 

Alright. So I guess... here I go.

Where do I start? You... well, you single-handedly changed pretty much everything I'd ever thought about myself. Do you know what it's like, to have one person come crashing (excuse the pun) into your life and just completely obliterate all preconceived notions you'd ever held? Especially when the person is obviously mad? A madman changed my life. I didn't want to think it at first. Wanted to just... I don't know. Guess I wanted to believe that you were just like every other bloke I'd ever met. But you were never every other bloke I'd ever met. Not once. Not during coffee or dinner or film nights or the times you gave me a bit of a leg up on course work. Never. You were always a step ahead of everyone and everything. And I always thought it was ridiculous that you'd want to bring me along with you.

I remember the first time I realized I might be in love with you. THAT was a strange time. I mean, I'm young, you know? I'm not close-minded. I got that sexuality could be kind of “fluid” so to speak and to pin myself down to any one thing so early on would leave out a lot of new experiences for me. But I'd always thought a snog and maybe a handy was about as far as I'd have gone with another man. I didn't think I'd end up actually falling in love with one. Didn't know I ever had the desire to. I guess that doesn't really matter though, does it? Heart wants what it wants and all that. I told you that once, remember?

Heart's a bit of an arsehole, isn't it? 

Anyway, we'd already been friends for a bit, couple of months I'd gather, and I respected you. Well, thought it was just respect. Turns out it was admiration as well, which is alright. But then that admiration kind of twisted up a bit. Got everything a bit... out of hand. One day I'm laying about, and I realize that I'm thinking of you. Not in a friendly way. I'm thinking about holding your hand and snuggling on couches and I'm thinking about what you might look like naked and what I might have done had I ever got you there. I'm thinking about you romantically all of a sudden. What it might be like to wake up and have you be there and all that. Very confusing time for a guy who thought he was straight. Thought. Didn't know for certain. Could have gone either way. Point is, after a while... all those romantic thoughts didn't seem so foreign anymore. They stopped being just things to think about and started being things I wanted. I was pretty much certain by that point. That I was in love. Head over heels, in fact. Too much. Much too much. 

I had to work extra at not letting you know. Because normal people, they wouldn't have guessed it right away. Normal people are a bit blind to that sort of thing. We automatically assume that there's no way someone might fancy us, because we're all hung up on how crap we think we are at everything. But you? You could see right through all that. And it's not like you're modest. Not remotely. Moment you'd have found out, you'd have said something. I know that. Guess I was just lucky that our friendship wasn't a typical one. It allowed things to slide. You know, little glances or quick touches or what-have-you. 

Bowled me over when I found out about you. You know, being in love with me and all. I really did think you'd gone mad for a minute, that I'd been dreaming, that you were having a bit of a laugh, at my expense. 

It's weird to think about this now, what with the way everything went about. But I thought... well, I thought we were going to be a forever kind of thing. I know, sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn't it? I remember some nights, sitting about in your flat... doing nothing. Laying on the couch or just fanning through a bit of work or just being there, and you'd be there at your desk or on the floor or with your nose in a book or sometimes laying on the couch with me, and I'd think “I could do this for the rest of my life.” And whenever I thought it, I meant it. I remember the way I felt in those moments. Contentment. It was just comfortable, just having you there, knowing I could reach out and just touch your hair or your shoulder or your bum. I wondered if you ever felt that way about me. I know you never wanted to be contented then, thought it was useless, and maybe it is. I liked it alright though. It was a steady happiness, nice and mellow. 

I kind of realize now you didn't. Not really. You couldn't. It wasn't really the way you worked, wasn't the way you were designed, I guess. I know now that you are a man of extremes. Either you're completely, stupidly happy or you're devastatingly, horribly depressed. It's never enough to just “be” for you. There doesn't seem to be a grey area, not when it comes to your emotions. Not that you liked to let on you even had those. I remember all those times, when you would relax all the muscles in your face, and to the world you'd look a bit like you just didn't care about anything. I knew better though, Sherlock. You were in a constant battle with yourself, with all that humanity that lurked about in you. That you tried real hard to shove off in a corner. You didn't fool me. 

I wanted to be everything to you. I told you that. And you tried to warn me. But I was a bit naïve then, a bit silly. I didn't realize that one person could depend so much on someone. Or something. I hadn't really given thought to the way you operated then. How black or white everything was. I wish I'd have known it. If I'd have known, I could've helped you properly. Could've done a real service to you. Instead I allowed myself to become a replacement. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have just given in every time and let you use me like you did. But I guess that's the stupidity of being in love with someone. You think you're their world and it makes you feel a bit shiny, like some kind of treasure, and even though you know you're doing them more damage than good, you let them keep on because it boosts your ego a bit. 

I liked being your distraction, I guess. I liked that you needed me as much as you did. In the beginning anyway. Before the letter. Before I realized just what you'd do to yourself without. It was silly of me to think I would be able to be your distraction forever. I thought that if I was there, you were okay. And mostly that's how our relationship worked. But I couldn't always be there. I wasn't always going to be there. 

Why'd you do that, anyway? Why'd you let me in so far if you knew I was just going to be shipping out eventually? That doesn't seem like the guy I met all that time ago. The one who didn't get attached and all that lark. You knew I'd be going off, knew I'd be gone for a long while... you knew all that and still came to bed and told me you loved me. Why? Didn't you know it was just going to end badly? Or did you think you wouldn't get that attached? Did you think you could distance yourself enough that you'd be alright when I was gone? Did it work?

I hated you for a while there. Not you, though. What you did to yourself. I saw all this brilliance and talent, saw how completely amazing you were in every way, and you just kept binning it. I wanted to beat the shit out of you on those days, when you'd ruin yourself. But at the same time I just wanted to hug you and remind you of how ridiculously wonderful you were. How perfect I thought you were, even if you were a stroppy, arrogant son of a bitch. Yeah, I did, you know. Think you were perfect. I'd look at you sometimes, with your hair and your skin and your smirks and I'd just think 'I got lucky with this one.' I'd think 'Perfect.' and that word would just go round and round in my head until it started sounding a bit funny, like it wasn't a real word anymore.

The first couple weeks were hell. I sat about wondering if you'd gone off and done yourself in. I kept thinking about what I'd said, how I couldn't stand about and watch you ruin yourself, how I couldn't leave and just worry about you constantly. I did anyway, of course. Spent all of January and a bit of February worried sick. Thought about writing you, just to see if you were alright, to see if you were alive. But then I realized that even if you had been alright, you wouldn't have replied. So I just sort of let myself think you were okay. That you'd gotten through it and that you'd already moved on and left me behind. Even though that hurt, much more than I care to think about now, it helped. It gave me a bit of room to focus on what I was supposed to be doing.

I saw you once, a couple years ago, I gather. I was on leave, was getting ready to be shipped here. I was at a shop, picking something up. Turned around and looked out the shop window and there you were. You were just walking by, but I knew it was you instantly. Still tall, still pale, still had all those curls, those cheekbones. You looked like you were in a bit of a hurry. You probably were, knowing you. You looked good though. Quite fit. Shopkeeper thought I'd gone a bit barmy cause I was just standing there staring out the window for a bit once you'd walked by, bags in hand, jaw dropped, eyes wide. It was like I'd seen a ghost. But it wasn't a ghost, just you. Still alive. Still striding about London as though you owned the entire world. Made me feel great. Made me feel shit. 

At least I could move on then, you know.

Just so you know... you were the most amazing person I'd ever known. I learned a lot from you. Sometimes, when I'm in the mess hall or what not, I catch myself looking at all the little details. I catch myself looking at the different dirt on peoples fatigues, or the way they put themselves together in the morning, body language... it's interesting. I never tell them, of course. I'm not too sure I've got it quite like you do, but it's a bit of fun when everything seems a bit bleak. 

Point is, in the time that we were together, you were arrogant and rude and demanding and a bit selfish at times. You had a tendency to say the first thing that came to your mind even though it made you look like an arsehole. You often meddled in things that weren't quite your business and sometimes I wanted to just tie your hands up and have you sit in a corner and think about what you'd done. But more than that, you had your heart in the right place. You had a way of telling me things that usually sounded like insults but I knew were compliments. It should've been easy to hate you but it wasn't. I loved you with every little bit in me, and I feel confident in saying that had you not been a stupid git and had you left all that chemical shit behind, I would probably be coming home to you on my leaves instead of to my parents. And that's a bit disgusting for me to think about. Not because it's you, but because the last time I even saw you in passing was... what, I'd gather nearly three years ago now? And I think I still love you. You, Sherlock Holmes, really did a bit of a number on me. But I guess I have to thank you, kind of. 

Anyway, I best be off. This letter got a bit out of hand and now I'm going to need a bonfire just to burn it up. Maybe I'll have a few of the mates about and we'll have a few. They won't have to know I've just killed a couple trees to tell my ex-boyfriend good bye, right? Course not. Here's hoping you're still doing well, Sherlock. I know you probably are but... well, who knows. 

 

Sincerely,

John

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

John,

I shall start by addressing this to you, John, because it is you who has become a nuisance. On numerous occasions I have done sweeps of necessary information in my mind and each time I've deemed our past relationship and your existence unnecessary. And so each time, I've committed to deleting you permanently from my mind. However, it seems as though I have been unsuccessful. I have gone through many different theories on why this is such, thought most seem to be inconclusive at best.

I began researching methods, instead, to drive you from my mind. Though most of the information I came across was predominantly riddled with useless psychobabble, I found a method or two that—at the very least—wouldn't waste any more time than strictly necessary. The first method proved to be highly unsuccessful. Therefore, I've submitted myself to the second method, which is this. I'm to write out any and all thoughts pertaining you. Admittedly, this is a time consuming exercise, as I've inadvertently created some sort of stock pile on information on you. One might venture to claim it is too much. In the past, I may have scoffed at the notion of “too much information”, but I fear I may have finally come around to understand what “too much information” is. At any rate, I've little else to do at the moment and perhaps doing some sort of “memory dump” may allow me to properly dispose of useless information.

Where do I begin in this diatribe? For once I haven't the faintest. Perhaps I shall start with small details. Ones that take me no more brain power than a quick glance. 

John Hamish Watson. Approximately 1.6 meters tall, 11 stone. Blond hair, blue eyes. Medical student. Trained at Bart's. As of January 2000, enlisted in Royal Army Medical Corps. Prefers coffee black. Takes tea with one sugar and a splash of milk. No knowledge of foreign languages. Sociable. Tidy. Competent. Occasionally overzealous. Quick study. Fond of curry. Not so fond of couscous. Prefers Chinese over Mediterranean, but Italian over Chinese. Drinks on occasion. Sister Harry: alcoholic, lesbian. Military past in male family members. Left handed. Tendency to read over same paragraphs numerous times before digesting information. Thoughtful. Quick to anger. Passionate. Compassionate. Sentimental. Anti-narcotic. Trusting. Gentle. Comfortable. Proud. Amusing. Slightly superstitious. Loyal. Patriotic. Prefers left side of the bed. Enjoys James Bond. Dislikes cats. Works well under pressure. Accepting. Reflexive.

Oh. Perhaps that isn't the best place to start.

Perhaps then I begin where we met. I found myself slightly intimidated by you, John. I'm aware that I register on perhaps the more lean side. You seemed sturdier than myself. I was inebriated. Under the circumstances, I was certain that the probability of my coming out on top in an altercation between the two of us was slim. Who knew you'd be so easily dazzled? I enjoyed that you were easily taken to my deductions about you. They were simple things. Obvious details that anyone with eyes could've seen. I very nearly killed you and there you stood smiling and complimenting me on my existence. You weren't very intimidating after all. Not for the moment. You were easily readable. I asked for coffee and I could see your indecision in the lines of your face. Logical. Then why did I seem upset? I needed an excuse to take something from you. I needed a disguise. The best disguises are the ones in which one hides in plain sight. You were too distracted by a strange man throwing a temper tantrum to notice that—when he brushed by you—his hand took to your bag's side pocket. So obvious. So readable. I could not for the life of me conclude why I had been fascinated by you, John. I still cannot for the life of me conclude why. 

Perhaps you wonder when I fell in love with you. I imagine quite early on. I couldn't be quite sure of it at the time, of course. I'd never quite experienced the effects of “love”. If I had to give a precise moment, however, I'd say it was the first time you'd seen my dormitory. I allowed you to freely examine all of my possessions. I admitted one of my darker secrets to you. Instead of discontinuing contact with me, you became more interested. I was certain I would terrify you had I confessed anymore of myself, though somehow you were unafraid. Yes, that was the moment. I had never felt comfortable with any one person before. You were always hospitable. 

I did plenty of research after that. Read countless, very dull novels detailing romantic relationships. Read further into the physiology of “love”. The chemical effects, I realized, I'd already encountered. Heart palpitations from passing glances. Elevated pulse at touches that barely registered as such. I wondered if you'd ever noticed my pupils upon catching my eye. I imagined they were quite dilated. I considered asking on few occasions, but found the question itself may cause suspicion. I wasn't sure you were familiar with the chemistry of lust. I found it was much easier to avoid the risk. 

I thought, perhaps, that it was a passing affection. I'd rarely come into contact with people who admired me as blatantly as you had. I thought, perhaps, I was merely attached to the attention. I will confess that I'd always found you aesthetically pleasing, and had—at this point—attempted to conclude that the mixture of your aesthetics with the positive reinforcement you seemed to willingly shower me with had caused me to grow affectionate toward you. It was the most probable conclusion of all the facts, given the circumstance of my romantic history, your sexuality, our friendship, etc.

You know, John, it was not particularly pleasant to admit that I was wrong.

After six months I was still harboring the same emotional attachment. And it hadn't waned, as I'd predicted it would. It had, instead, grown. It had come to a point where you were a source of pleasure to me. I found myself cataloging different methods of making you laugh, of how to procure a “warm smile” from you. I found myself researching the best possible methods of convincing you to feel similar affections. In simpler terms, I wanted you to love me as I loved you. 

I recall moments in which I studied you quite closely and found that you may have been exhibiting similar reactions. In the privacy of my room, I must admit I was quite elated to spot them. Though I am a man of logic. I was well aware that further data would need to be gathered if I was to make an educated conclusion. However, I was impatient. I am notoriously impatient. This you know, John. And so, despite not having concrete evidence of your affections toward me, I made the brash decision to inform you of mine. I acted out of my element, that much is certain. I was prepared to sever ties if need be, though—I must confess—it was the last thing I wanted. 

I didn't need to. That was a nice revelation. 

I must admit that it terrified me, how you wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with me. It was very conflicting the next morning, when we sat at my table and discussed it. I had no previous experience in such attachments. The only type of attachments I had known were predominantly destructive. This, of course, you realized. However, you were brave. You were loyal. You were willing. 

I have things I must confess. Well, more things. It seems as though this has become something of a confessional. Was that the purpose of this exercise? Perhaps it was. These are the thoughts I associate with you, John. It is best I release them while I am here. Though where I should start is, again, a rather daunting thought. Though, as you'll never read this, I suppose anywhere is fine. 

Many of the things I told you while under chemical influence were false. The ones I said of you, at any rate. I hadn't known it at the time, of course. It took steady deliberation later on to come to terms with such. I told you that you had become my drug of choice. At the time, perhaps I believed this to be true. I had become very dependent on you to keep me grounded. You were, in hindsight, exactly what I had needed. However, it is with great regret that I confess I used you in the wrong ways. Allow me to explain this in simple terms.

The narcotics I chose to use were chemically created. The effects of them were signs of the body being poisoned. I chose to poison myself in order to keep my mind at bay. Calling you a drug of choice insisted that you were a poison, John, as my drugs of choice were poisons. You were not a poison. I, perhaps, was a poison. Perhaps I still am a poison. But you never were. You, John, were an antidote. I managed, somehow, to miss this fact. Had I seen this before, perhaps I could've used you to your fullest potential. 

I have one other thing I shall confess here and that is this: I sabotaged our relationship purposely. Upon finding me “intoxicated” three months before your departure, you informed me that if I was caught again, you would end our relationship. At first, the thought was horrifying. Then the thought of said thought became horrifying. I had realized the extent of my dependency on you, had realized that it had grown out of hand. The idea of your departure was no longer just saddening, but completely devastating. I had lost direction in how I was supposed to live if you weren't beside me. The night you found me, I am afraid, was my act of self-control. It may not seem it, though it is the most accurate way to describe it. I knew that you would come in to find me there, and you would be livid. I knew you would keep to your promise. I knew you would leave the next day and I would no longer be a part of your plans. I had planned for you to find me in such a state. I needed you to end our relationship, because I needed proof that I was able to function without you. I suppose I could've just explained the situation. I could've been the one to end us. But remember, I had lost control. I couldn't have left you. I didn't have the will power. It had to be you to leave me. 

I suppose my true final confession is this: you were not the only one hurt that night. I realize that in executing my plan, it was my own fault. However, the damage was not just yours. You waited for me to speak, I realize this. It would've been counterproductive. I would've merely ruined my planning. I may have actually begged, for the first time in my life. I suppose if I had to choose any person to beg for, though, it would be you. 

Revealing all of this has done one thing. It has made it quite obvious to me that I am—after five years—still very much in love with you. It makes sense, now, to know why I couldn't properly delete you from my mind. I suppose that I am much smarter than myself, though how such a feat is possible, I may never know. My best guess is that my subconscious mind is much wiser than my conscious mind. I will have to investigate this matter further. 

Mycroft could give me information on you, if I asked. It would mean allowing him to similar information, which I can't exactly claim I'm comfortable with. Perhaps it is best that I don't know of your current whereabouts (though with the times we're currently in, my wagers lie with either Afghanistan or Iraq.) or whether you are okay. I do know, however, that wherever you are, you are succeeding beyond typical standards, for Queen and Country. 

Regards, 

SH


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrows heavily from ASiP. And when I say borrow, I mean verbatim. 
> 
> Woops.

“John? John Watson?”

_Oh bloody hell._

John turns, eying the man at the bench in what he hopes is slight interest. He isn't all that interested, however. Anyone who knows his name now can't possibly be someone he wants to associate with. Especially when they seem so very baffled to find it's him. The man stands, makes his way toward John.  _Oh, no hold on. I know him. Oh, bugger what's his name. Pete's friend. One who fancied Harry for moment._ “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together.” the man seems to answer his inner thoughts for him.  _That's the one._ “Yes, sorry, yes... hello, Mike.” John greets, extending his hand to meet Mike Stamford's.  _Put on a bit of weight, hasn't he?_ “Yeah, I know. I got fat.” Mike laughs. John shakes his head, makes a weak attempt at denying such, but he wonders momentarily if Mike is reading his mind. 

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?” Mike asks. John pauses for a moment. He is walking with a cane. He is limping. The answer should be quite obvious. But Mike looks expectantly at him, awaits a proper answer. John gives a quick glance down to his cane before meeting Mike's eye once again. “I got shot.” he says simply. Mike looks, for lack of a better word, dim. He gives a small nod, his mouth open just slightly. John considers ending the conversation then, excusing himself, strolling off as quickly as possible, but Mike stops him. “Have a minute? Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Catch up on old times.” 

“Ah—“

“Go on, John. Haven't seen you in ages. Not too many familiar faces these days.” Mike says.

John inhales and holds it momentarily in his lungs. He sneaks a glance over his shoulder, at the rest of the park, to the shop he was heading to.  _Sod it._ Shopping can wait. “Yeah, alright. Hope it's close by though, legs a bit...” he trails off, and Mike nods understandingly. He points his thumb back toward the bench. “Just over there. Come on.” 

John follows Mike willingly. Mike speaks rather rapidly, reminiscing fondly of the few parties both of them had attended. John reminds Mike that he'd once fancied his sister, and Mike blushes. “Yeah, well. How was I to know I wasn't quite her type?” he asks, large coffee now in hand. John smirks, “Bit where she was chatting up all the  _women_ at the party probably should've been a good indication.” 

“I'd had a few, alright? No need to harp on.” 

“Ah, only having a bit of fun.”

They settle on a bench and the conversation lulls momentarily as each enjoy their cup. John can't seem to think of a single thing to say. Mike seems to have lost interest in saying much more. John clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “So... still at Bart's, then?” he asks. Mike laughs quietly, “Yeah. Teaching now. Bright, young things like we used to be.” 

John nods. He didn't remember Mike being all  _that_ bright. He was alright, mostly. But John, of course, wouldn't say that. He nods instead. Mike shakes his head as he adds, “God I hate them.” They both share a small laugh over that. Both are certain that the professors of their time felt quite similar about them. John knows a few that definitely did. “What about you?” Mike breaks John's thoughts for a moment as he asks. “Staying in town until you get sorted?” 

“Can't afford London on an army pension.” 

“Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know.”

John stiffens momentarily. Mike, John knows,  _doesn't_ know him. Not really. Not in the sense he seems to think he does. The John Watson Mike knows has never seen the plights of war, has never had a human being die at his expense. The John Watson Mike knows is not as logical, has not quite grown up yet. He is naïve and silly and—though bright—completely daft to what reality has in store. “I'm not the John Watson you...” he trails off, detecting the unintended edge in his voice. He clears his throat. He takes a moment to tamp down any hostile feelings he may be experiencing toward Mike quite suddenly. It isn't Mike's fault. John is naturally tense now, naturally alert to all things.

Mike says nothing for a moment. He seems to recognize that John needs a moment. John feels guilty for believing Mike Stamford to be dim. 

“Couldn't Harry help?” Mike tries.

John laughs. It has a bitter feeling toward it. “Yeah, like that's going to happen.”

Mike sighs, slightly helpless. “I don't know... you could get a flat share or something.”

John wonders quite suddenly what ever came to be of Pete. He knows that Pete had seemed...  _upset_ that he'd been leaving. He remembers Pete becoming distant quite quickly. He can only imagine what sort of things Pete went on to tell anyone who might listen about him. After all, Pete was many things. Mature he couldn't quite say was one of them. It hadn't helped that he'd been with... John swallows quietly around the thought of  _him._ With the quickness and efficiency he's mastered over the last decade, he tamps down another uncomfortable dance his stomach does and asks instead, “Come on,” he says in knowing voice, “Who'd want  _me_ for a flatmate?”

He doesn't expect Mike to chuckle quietly. He turns, eyebrows furrowed. He hadn't thought the question had been all that funny. In fact, to his knowledge, it hadn't been very humorous at  _all._ He looks over Mike quickly and brings his attention back to his smiling face. “What?” he asks, confusion evident in his voice.

“You're the second person to tell that to me today.” 

_Christ, how many homeless friends does this man have?_ John's brows furrow a bit deeper and he waits for Mike to continue, but he doesn't. It looks as though he's waiting to be prompted. “And who was the first?” John finally asks. Mike has a strange smile sitting on his lips. He checks his wrist watch quickly and then looks back to John. “Have you got an extra minute? Maybe the two of you should meet.” he asks.

“What's he like?” John knows he should probably be weary. He's had flatmates before, has had to live with many, many people. He also knows that he  _does_ in fact love London, and—if he could—would prefer to live there. He wonders vaguely if Mike is about to suggest one of his students when he speaks. “Eccentric. Sharp as a tack. Think you two would get on quite well, actually.” 

“Any bad habits I should know about?”

“Don't know. Never lived with him personally.”

“How do you know him, then?”

Mike makes to stand, and John follows suit. “He's about Bart's quite often. Mostly in the labs. Not sure how he's got access... he's not a student. Not even alumni. Apparently, he's works with Scotland Yard on occasion, but from what I gather he's not directly employed.” Mike explains. John nods, though—admittedly—he doesn't understand. “Known him very long?” John asks.

“Few years now, I reckon.” Mike replies.

“He's not some sort of psychopath, is he?” John inquires.

“No.  _Eccentric,_ yeah. Not a psychopath. Chances are he'll be there now, if you'd like to talk to him.” Mike gestures with his head, pointing in the general and very familiar direction of St. Bart's. John looks toward it. It's been a few years since he's seen the grounds. If nothing else, John reasons, it might be nice to see what's become of Bart's. He finally nods in confirmation. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. Might as well. What's the worse that could happen?” 

“Not a thing. If nothing else, at least you'll have seen your old stomping grounds.”

“Of course.”

  


  
  


  
  


“Bit different from my day.” John confesses.

He hasn't really paid attention to the random man in the room. The man is bent far over the table, staring at the droplet being released into the slide before him. John looks to Mike, for an explanation, for an introduction, but nothing seems to come. Suddenly, the man sits upright. He looks to the slide and then glances quickly at Mike. “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” 

John feels a jolt of something unidentifiable punch him in the stomach.

Mike is replying, but John isn't listening. It is the voice that has captured him first. It's a low growl of a voice, one that John knows is easily recognizable, one that he has accidentally memorized and knows and... his head snaps to the man at the stool. John's heart lurches as he realizes just who Mike Stamford has decided to introduce him to. He hears Mike's voice finally, “This is John Watson.” he tells Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock is staring at him. His expression is pleasantly blank, as though he's toying with several ideas of how to approach a stranger. John grips his cane tighter. “Here.” John's voice seems to be saying without his consent. “Use mine.” His hand slides into his pocket and retrieves the mobile Harry's given him. He holds it out. His body is reacting without his consent, and perhaps it's for the best. His mind, as it happens, is turning into some sort of goo. It's shouting and clawing at itself, it's considering its options but none of them make any sense because they're beginning to jumble together. Sherlock stands, and John can feel his heart throw itself against his side as the tall man walks toward him. He has, if it is even possible, become more elegant, John feels. His strides are long and graceful. He wears a suit, which hugs him quite perfectly. His eyes are bright and his skin is smooth. 

Time has done good things for Sherlock Holmes.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks casually, sliding the screen of the phone up to reveal the keyboard. John glances to Mike, who is smirking in that knowing way.  _Oh._ Eccentric. Yes, of course Sherlock Holmes is eccentric. Mike has no idea of he and Sherlock's past. How could he? It's not as though Mike was his closest friend. And knowing Sherlock, he can't imagine it's something that Sherlock has discussed with Mike Stamford.

“Afghanistan.” John replies. He is watching Sherlock's fingers fly across the keyboard. He's using most of his concentration to simply  _breathe_ at that point. He is suddenly twenty-four once again, laying eyes on Sherlock Holmes, marveling at just how  _beautiful_ and  _horrible_ a single person can be. Sherlock easily slides the phone shut and hands John his phone back. A small, mousy girl comes in and hands Sherlock a mug. He makes a casual observation about her. She seems to stammer in reply. John watches the exchange, watches Sherlock walk back to his stool with those long strides. He can't hear anything they seem to be saying, as his heart is drumming loudly in his ears.

Sherlock looks completely at ease. John wants to punch him in the face.

A beeping from somewhere shakes him from his thoughts. It is Mike. The watch on his wrist seems to be informing him of something. “Ah, must be off lads. I'll be late for my lecture.” he says, standing. John's head snaps to look at Mike, who is gathering himself to leave. “Think you can find your way, John?” he asks. John isn't sure how to reply, so he nods instead and watches as Mike gives a short farewell to Sherlock.

The door shuts behind Mike, and the air suddenly becomes electric. 

Sherlock sets down the pipette in his hand and his body language changes quite drastically. He'd been confident, with a straight spine and graceful loping and a casual smile. Suddenly, his body is tense. His face has fallen slack. His eyes, which had been unbelievably blue just moments before, have become a near grey. John watches him swallow. Neither seem to know what to say. John clenches his jaw, swallows down a strange slew of words that have no place in that room. He decides to go with something easier. “Fancy meeting you here.” he says into the silence. His voice is a bit rougher than he'd planned it to be. He clears his throat.

Sherlock isn't looking at him. He's staring at the table before him. He doesn't reply.

The tension is unbearable. John is realizing this the longer he stands. He knows he should leave, but the pull of old times seems to be sticking him to his spot. He shifts his weight, leaning harder onto his cane. “Well, then.” he says awkwardly, “Perhaps I should just... be on my way.” 

Sherlock finally looks up. His hands grip the table before him and John notices his body lurch forward just slightly, as though he's preparing to jump up. However, he stays seated. They seem to connect at the eyes and John is thrown face first into something he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. “It's psychosomatic.” Sherlock says finally. John's brows furrow, and he watches as Sherlock glances down to his leg quickly. “Your limp, I mean.”

John isn't sure how to reply. So he doesn't.

The room is silent enough to hear the work being done in the room next door. John puffs his cheeks as he releases a slow breath. “So, you're looking for a flatmate.” he says. 

“London is a bit expensive.”

“Yes. Yes, it certainly is.”

“I'm clean.” Sherlock says. John quirks an eyebrow. He wonders if the question is written across his face. After all, of all the things he's thinking of Sherlock at this moment, that is definitely one of them. He recalls the last time he'd been face-to-face with Sherlock. He doesn't like to think about it, but it rushes him and he can do little to stop it. But now, here, with Sherlock, once again... He's clean. “Oh?” John asks. He watches Sherlock turn away once again. He's nodding gently. “Have been. For... a number of years.”

“Congratulations.” John says shortly. He feels a bit bitter about it. He knows he shouldn't, knows he should be  _happy_ that Sherlock has finally gotten himself together. He is bitter that it wasn't for him. Oh  _God_ he still loves him. The realization slaps him hard. The urges to fly across the room and smother Sherlock in kisses creep through his limbs. He is resisting, fighting every stupid instinct he has. After all, he's not twenty-something anymore. He's closer to  _forty._ He's a grown man, has seen the reality of the world, and the way relationships work, and the way they don't work. And despite all that, he can confirm it. Love is bubbling up in his chest, but it's sad and wistful and... John clears his throat once again. 

“What do you... do these days?” John asks. 

Sherlock's eyebrows raise slightly at this, as though he hasn't realized John didn't know. “I... am a detective.” he says. “ _Consulting_ detective. Only one in the world.” Sherlock licks his lips when he pauses. “Invented the job.” 

“Yeah, Stamford was mentioning something about you working with Scotland Yard. What  _exactly_ does he mean? What does  _consulting detective_ mean?”

“Means when the police are out of their depth, which is  _always_ , they consult me.”

John quirks an eyebrow. He thinks back to the time when Sherlock had dragged him to a crime scene. He remembers seeing Sherlock studiously hovering over a dead body. Remembers a constable flying into some kind of confused rage. Remembers Sherlock's look of cool indifference as he explained the scene to the constable.  _Oh_ . He's made a job of it. He's made a job of waundering about crime scenes and observing all the details and making the police force look a bit silly. He's made a job out of  _being himself_ . John can't help the tiny smile that rises to his lips. If anyone would be able to accomplish such a feat, it would be Sherlock.

He tells Sherlock that. “Only  _you_ could make a  _job_ out of being  _you._ ” he says with a small laugh.

Sherlock releases a quiet chuckle, looks back to John. “You recall the constable that scolded me on my first crime scene?” he asks. John nods, trying to push out the memory of moments later, of the hands on his skin and the lips on his lips and... he hopes his face doesn't show what he's thinking. “Seems that constable kept me in mind upon rising in ranks. Detective Inspector Lestrade is—by far—one of my most frequent clients.” 

John laughs again. “Smart man.”

“On occasion.” 

The tension seems to be evaporating beneath their idle conversation. John is feeling much more relaxed than he'd started. It's a bit like slipping into an old, favourite pair of jeans, ones that maybe didn't fit quite right for a long while. It's snug and it still seems to hold him just as he remembers. The moment, he realizes, is too familiar. He is feeling  _too_ comfortable. He's thinking all these thoughts and his body is seemingly too lax. John hears the words leave his mouth before his brain has a chance to snag them back: “I missed you.”

Sherlock pauses. His jaw clenches tightly. His Adam's apple jumps as he swallows. John opens his mouth, ready to apologize, to excuse himself. He's feeling exposed, as though he's beneath one of the many microscopes in the room and Sherlock will be examining him at any moment. He clears his throat, the first sound of a word slipping from his mouth, but Sherlock interrupts him. “I missed you as well.” 

Neither seem to know how to progress from that moment. They are both staring at one another, seemingly blank. John is allowing Sherlock's voice, saying those words, to wash over him gently. His heart should not be beating as quickly as it is. Not over five words. Not over Sherlock saying them. Not over Sherlock. But it is, and though he attempts to calm himself, it has little effect.

“Perhaps... we should discuss this at a later date.” Sherlock says, standing quite suddenly. He grabs up a blue scarf and slips it around his neck, then shrugs into a rather long, handsome coat. John is slightly baffled by the effect it gives. It makes Sherlock—who is naturally quite posh and elegant-looking—look something close to  _regal,_ perhaps even  _statuesque._ It's a  _very_ attractive look for him. Though, as John recalls, Sherlock always managed to look quite dashing.

“Later date?” John asks.

“Yes. Perhaps tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock?” he asks, slipping a hand into his coat as he begins striding toward John. 

“Erm... right. Okay.” He's not even sure what requires discussion, but he's lost his train of thought at the sight of Sherlock coming toward him. He's bracing himself, he realizes, but for what he's not sure. He finds it's actually quite unnecessary. Sherlock brushes past him simply, heading for the door. “Fantastic. I hate to leave, but I've a very important meeting I must attend and I believe I've left my riding crop in the mortuary.” 

_Riding crop?_ John watches Sherlock open the door and nearly leave the room before he asks, “Wait, where are we meeting?” 

Sherlock reappears, just his head and a long, slender hand curled around the door. He gives a small smile, “Two two one B, Baker Street.”

And then Sherlock is gone. The door is closing behind him and John catches a final glimpse of him in the small pane of glass beside the door before he's left in complete silence. 

  
  


  


  
  


221B Baker Street seems to be right in the heart of London, John finds. 

He glances to the small cafe' and wonders if it's where Sherlock has meant to meet. He doesn't wait for very long—he hears Sherlock's voice call for him a moment later. He wheels around to find Sherlock paying the cab that is parked before him. John finds this unusual. “What happened to—“ John asks as Sherlock approaches him, but Sherlock is already speaking. “Don't be ridiculous. That car was never mine.”

“I never knew that.”

“Father's car.” 

“Ah.” John says. It makes sense. He looks up to the building as Sherlock approaches the door, blatantly labeled. “So what are we doing here, then?” he asks, glancing between the tall man beside him and the door. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, grabbing hold of the brass knocker and giving the door a few door taps. “Obvious, isn't it?” 

“Is it?”

A moment later, a small, older woman appears at the door. She looks happy to see Sherlock. This is a strange sight for John. “Sherlock.” the woman says warmly, spreading her arms. “Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock replies with a smiles wrapping her in his arms and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. John has  _never_ seen Sherlock act affectionately toward anyone. No one, he has to remind himself, except for him. “Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson.” he introduces. John holds out his hand, only  _slightly_ thrilled that Sherlock had remembered the title he hadn't been acquainted with, and exchanges pleasantries with Mrs. Hudson while she ushers them inside. 

Sherlock leads them up the stairs. John is less than enthused about the idea of stairs, but he makes his way. He finds Sherlock hovering beside an unmarked door. Sherlock waits until John has reached the landing to swing it open. 

It's a flat. A rather lovely flat. Cluttered, most certainly. Boxes are strewn about, all full with this and that. But it's quite spacious. And there's a fireplace, which John certainly likes. The kitchen is equally cluttered, with microscopes and beakers and burners and test tubes, but it's rather lovely and it looks to have sliding privacy screens. However, he's still a bit clueless on what he's doing. “There's another bedroom upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson chimes, intruding on his thoughts. “If you'll be needing two.” She gives him a knowing wink. He looks to Sherlock, who seems unphased. “Ah...” John replies slowly. 

“Mrs. Hudson, a moment of privacy, please?” Sherlock asks suddenly, turning to look to the older woman.

Mrs. Hudson gives a small nod. She shoots John a look, one that John isn't quite sure how to identify, but he can see the glint in her eye and suddenly there's something bizarre about the entire scenario. She walks out and shuts the door behind her, and for a moment there is silence. “Please, feel free to sit.” Sherlock says, gesturing toward the arm chairs before the fireplace. John does so, flopping into the chair and setting his cane aside. “Alright. What's this about?” he asks, watching as Sherlock takes the seat opposite.

“I did think you'd have caught on by now. Though you probably have and are now merely waiting for me to give you confirmation.”

John quirks an eyebrow. He's got many ideas of what's happening. He's not sure he's correct in any of them. So he does, in fact, wait for Sherlock's confirmation of at least one of them. 

Sherlock leans back in his seat, crossing his legs and steepling his hands to his mouth. He stares for a moment, then finally rests his hands upon the arms of the chair. “You're looking for accommodation. I'm looking for a flatmate. We have history, one that was  _predominantly_ positive, so it's not as though we're complete strangers to one another. Combination of our financial means would be suitable to sustain all the required necessities in this flat.” he explains.

John blinks in reply. 

Sherlock sighs, and John instantly recognizes the annoyance. It's just so plainly  _familiar._ He understands what Sherlock is doing, of course. And it does make sense. Sherlock is no stranger to John. There's an open room. In the middle of London, which is—ideally—where John is hoping to live. But it isn't as simple as that. Their history  _is_ predominantly positive, but it is the  _negative_ that worries him still. “So what you're asking then—“ John says finally, “—is for me to move in to your flat.” 

“Yes.”

John shakes his head. “No.” 

Sherlock looks baffled. “What? Why?” he asks incredulously.

John makes to stand. He's made up his mind. He  _can't_ live with Sherlock. It wouldn't work. Because he sees exactly what would happen. He would be in Sherlock's presence constantly once again. He wouldn't just be able to be his friend, not again. He'd have to be with him. There wouldn't be an option. Sherlock is older now, and still a bit reckless probably, but now he's  _eliminated_ the one piece of him that John couldn't cope with. And John  _knows_ that Sherlock isn't the type for reminiscing. Would probably scoff at the idea of another go. So he'd be forced to pine, once again. And he isn't going to. Not over Sherlock Holmes.

“Because it's not a good idea.” John says. He is attempting to steady himself, but his mind isn't right and his leg is beginning to bother him more and Sherlock is preparing to stand himself. He plants his cane into the floor and catches his balance against it. “How is it not possibly a good idea, John? It's practically perfect. The situation couldn't be any more ideal.” Sherlock enjoys arguing. John knows this and he wishes he could simply walk from the room without this  _stupid_ hobble he has to handle, but he makes his way despite that. Sherlock, however, all long limbs and strides, manages to step in front of the door. “John. You aren't being reasonable.”

“I'm being quite reasonable. Thank you.”

“No, you're acting rather irrationally.”

“I'm really not, Sherlock. Promise.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow. They search John's face in that way that John  _knows so well_ , and suddenly John realizes that he's forgotten to hide himself. It's been so long since he's had to keep even his most  _subtle_ emotional expressions at bay that he's allowed Sherlock to simply see them. He attempts to mask them quickly, but he knows it's too late. Sherlock's face has relaxed. His posture has stiffened. John shuts his eyes and exhales loudly through his nose. “Tell me why it isn't.” Sherlock demands. His voice is even. John knows he is caught. He sighs. “Sherlock, you know—“

“I don't, John. You must explain it.”

John takes a deep breath, exasperation across his face. He looks to the ceiling, as though asking it for a favor, and then settles his eyes straight ahead, which happen to be at Sherlock's chin. “Our  _history_ is the exact reason it's a bad idea.” he says finally. He clenches his jaw. He continues looking forward. Sherlock stays just as stiff. “Elaborate.” he says.

John's body slouches. He shuts his eyes and leans against his cane, allowing his head to hang. “Why, Sherlock. You already know.” 

“Humor me.”

“I'd rather not.”

“For old times sake.”

“Why? Why do you do this?” John asks suddenly. He finally meets Sherlock's eyes. “You already know why. If  _I_ know you've already caught on, then what's the point in forcing me to say it?” he snaps. He takes a step backward, heaving a heavy sigh. Sherlock simply stares. John feels as though he'd like to lay down. His leg is bothering him and he's getting a bit too caught up in emotions and all the training and discipline he's gone through are failing him. He purses his lips momentarily, then swallows. “I can't do it, alright? I just... I just can't.”

“Why?”

John is going to burst at any moment. He can feel this building up in his chest. Those words are buzzing like an angry hornet's next, sitting at the back of his throat, waiting for the right smack to bring them down. “Stop it.” he replies.

“Stop what? I've asked you a question and you've blatantly ignored me. I'm merely seeking my answer.” 

John has had enough. This will be the last time he will see Sherlock Holmes. This he knows. “You.” he says evenly. “Because of you.” 

“Me?” Sherlock asks, brows furrowed.

“Yes. You. I can't live in  _your_ flat, with  _you,_ day in and day out. It wouldn't work, Sherlock. I'd go mad.” he starts in. The words are beginning to tumble from his mouth. “I know how'd it start. We'd sort of tip-toe about one another and it would be a bit awkward because every time we looked at one another, we'd be thinking ' _Wonder how different he looks naked now_ ' or  _'Wonder if he still does that thing with his tongue'.”_ John explains. “Yeah, we'd probably get over it. After all, we're  _adults,_ we have the  _capability._ We'd become friends again. And  _that's_ where the problems would start, Sherlock. Right then.” His voice is raising without his consent. He isn't thinking much about what he's saying anymore, just allowing whatever is said to be said. May as well.

“Because  _that's_ the point that fucked me the last time, didn't it? I became your friend. But then  _friendship_ wasn't enough. Not for me, Sherlock. Not for my head or my heart.”

“John—“

“And then it was bloody  _brilliant_ , wasn't it? You and me, together. Thought it was gonna be forever. I really did! But you were such an  _idiot_ with your bloody bad habits and you just couldn't  _let_ me have that, could you? Couldn't just  _be with me_ and have that be enough!” 

Sherlock's brows are creased deeply. His face is contorting into something like disbelief. “John, you—“

“Oh  _right,_ I went off to the  _army_ , right?” John's voice is sarcastic and loud. He's gotten himself worked up into a bit of a state, one where he knows he's being a  _bit_ more dramatic than he may normally be, but he cannot seem to control himself. “People don't do that  _every bloody day_ , right? Men and women don't leave behind loved ones to join the service, never happens. No, Sherlock, that wasn't it. We could've made it work. I know I would've been willing, had you not been such a stubborn sod. It could've been  _you_ I'd be coming back to on my leaves, not to my bloody  _parents.”_

“I—“

“But  _this_ , this is the problem, right here. This is why I can't do this. Because now you're  _literally_ exactly what I wanted.  _Exactly._ Because now you're  _you_ without the bad habits and I  _can't_ stand about and just  _pine_ for you, Sherlock. I did it once, I did it twice, and I refuse to do it a third time because I'm much too old to be going on about some bloke I fell for in Uni. Alright? So let's—let's just call this what it is. A fluke meeting between a couple of people who happened to both be London natives at the same time.” He has finally come down, has finally said his piece, and now he is exhausted. He simply wants to go back to the small, dingy place he's staying in and  _sleep_ , and perhaps when he wakes up, he'll learn that seeing Sherlock again had been nothing more than a dream.

Sherlock is speechless. His eyes are slightly wider and his lips are turned into a dumbfounded frown. He looks like he's on the verge of words, but it's as though he can't seem to decide where to start. John takes the opportunity to gesture him aside. It's much easier than he thinks it'll be. 

He doesn't give any parting words. He simply opens the door and walks out onto the landing. His mind is reeling back, trying to play back what he may have said. Everything, he wagers. He probably said everything. He's hobbling down the stairs and manages to make it to the second landing when he hears footsteps behind him.  _He's thought of his retort._ The steps are quick and gingerly and seem to last only a second.

Then John is being spun about.

Then John is being pressed against the wall.

Then John is being  _thoroughly kissed_ by Sherlock Holmes. 

He feels Sherlock's hands—those  _familiar, beautiful_ hands—cup his face and that long, lean body crush itself against him. And the sensation of those lips, and the taste of that mouth, and _... oh God_ John can feel himself getting dizzy beneath all the sudden sensations, the ones that are both brand new and completely comfortable. His body, it's responding without his advice, something that it seems programmed to do beneath Sherlock's touch. Suddenly he is twenty-four all over again, in the back of the library, in the reference shelves never seen. He is back in his room, all that time ago, intoxicated and pressed hard against his door and fighting off a nagging in the back of his head.

He is feeling, very suddenly, at home once again.

“You  _moron.”_ Sherlock says breathlessly, between kisses. “Absolute  _fool_ .” John can hear Sherlock saying these things. They are low in his throat and coming out hurriedly and they're directed at John, but they're punctuated with those lips, so despite how offended John figures he should be, he isn't. He is kissing Sherlock, which is something he's thought about for the past  _decade_ , whether it be consciously or in dreams. He grabs hold of Sherlock's face and pulls him away, just an inch or so, to ask, “What have I done now?”

“ _Pining._ You believe you'd be  _pining.”_ Sherlock replies.

John furrows his brows.

“If you were to  _pine,_ it would be of your own volition. It wouldn't be due to some sort of  _requirement.”_

The crease in his brow smooths. He takes a moment to stare at Sherlock, to look at him  _properly_ for the first time that evening. It should be obvious, in the way Sherlock is pressed against him, in the kisses he just smashed against John's lips. His heart is beginning to thump against his ribcage, hammering out of control. Oh. Oh.  _Oh._ He gets it.  _Oh God._ No, he definitely understands. He isn't alone. He's not the only one. A tiny smile quirks at the corner of his mouth as he demands, “Tell me why.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Obvious, isn't it?”

“Humor me.”

John can feel Sherlock's body jolt with the small breath of a laugh he pushes out. He waits. Sherlock rests his forehead against John's. “I've spent the last decade attempting to divorce myself  _properly_ from any and all emotion, and I was quite successful for a number of years.” he says quietly. “I had very nearly forgotten how  _sentimental_ I'd become, had married myself to my work, had disciplined my being quite thoroughly. I should've known it would only take a small reappearance to allow that to crumble.”

John smirks, “That's a lie, isn't it?” 

Sherlock looks baffled. “Why would you assume I'm  _lying?”_

“Because you don't  _forget.”_

“Missing the larger point.”

“Oh no, I've got the larger point.” John says, nodding. “But this—this is giving you a taste of your medicine. It's a bit shit when people nitpick details in the middle of a speech, isn't it?” He's plastered a seriously smug smirk on his face. Sherlock's mouth draws downward into a frown, and John is tempted to kiss him, but he is making his own point. “Go on. Give me the larger point.” he says.

“You just said you understood the larger point.”

“I'd like you to  _elaborate.”_

“You've made your point, John.”

“I'd like you to make yours.”

Sherlock's jaw tenses. He slides his hands from John's face to his shoulders, down to his biceps. He finally lifts himself, straightening his back. He takes a deep breath. “I did many things in our time that I lived to regret later. Forcing you to keep your word was—“

“ _Forcing_ me?”

Sherlock's jaw clenches harder. He swallows quietly. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

“How can you have  _forced_ me to—“ He stops. His brain coils around the words. His lips part, realization hitting him. His eyes narrow, his brows furrow. He stares at Sherlock incredulously. “You did it on purpose.” he says. The look on Sherlock's face confirms it. John nods slowly, a sardonic smile coming to his lips. “Ah. Yes. Of course you did.” 

“That's not important now, John.”

“You wanted me to leave you.” 

“Not for the reason you're thinking.”

“What's the reason I'm thinking?”

They lock eyes. Sherlock's face is all business, all serious. “You believe I was ready for our relationship to end. You're under the assumption that I wanted to grant you the knowledge that you had the upper hand. That was not my intention, John.” 

“Go on, then.”

Sherlock exhales through his tightly clenched jaw. “I'd rather we discuss this in private.” he says through clenched teeth.

“Must be a hell of a story.”

“John.” He says it with that voice, the one that John knows means his patience is being tested. It is the exact same. Sherlock is practically the same person. John is going to punch him. John is going to kiss him. John isn't quite sure what he's going to do at this point, but he's curious of Sherlock's past intentions. He's curious about his present intentions as well, but this seems important to know. John has no intention of moving. 

Sherlock sighs, rolls his eyes, and slackens his posture. He looks a bit like a petulant teenager, finally fessing up to borrowing the car without permission. “I needed you to leave me because I needed to regain control of myself.” he says quickly, “I became frightened of the amount of dependency I'd put on you and the only way I could think to become self-sufficient once again was to eliminate you from my life. However, since I'd _become_ so attached to you, it was impossible for me to take the initiative. Therefore—“

“You forced me to do it.” John says. The explanation is actually quite _endearing._ John has, thankfully, long since gotten over the initial sting he'd felt that night. Sure, the reasoning is semi-cowardice, but they were young and silly. Sherlock nods simply. John has decided to allow Sherlock to continue with his previous thought. “Alright, go on.”

“What?” Sherlock asks. His voice is a bit dim. He causes a small smile to cross John's lips. 

“Your point. Your larger point.”

“I'm still in love with you.” Sherlock says it quite frankly. John is expecting him to tip-toe around the words, much like he'd done the first time. But they come out of his mouth with certainty, as though they've been staring John in the face the entire time, and Sherlock is merely reading them out loud. John swallows. He nods, takes a deep breath, and straightens his back. “Right.” he says simply. 

Sherlock's brows furrow. “Right?” he inquires.

John nods again, pursing his lips. “Right.” he repeats.

Sherlock looks a little befuddled. His hands slide from John's arms.

“Oh, go on, you stupid git.” John says after a moment of silence. He reaches his hand out and grabs hold of Sherlock's. He slowly laces their fingers together. Sherlock glances quickly from John's hand to John's face. John smirks, “You already know I am too.” 

It is physically visible, Sherlock's relaxing. His body seems to literally slacken, except for his hand. He grips tighter, fingers implanting themselves into John's skin. He turns back toward the stairs, making his way back up. “Come on, John. You should probably see the rest of the flat before you make your decision.” Sherlock says, tugging his arm gently. John gives a small laugh, allowing himself to be lead. “I can't imagine why I'd say no at this point. Unless you've begun... I don't know, keeping dead bodies in the fridge or something.” 

Sherlock glances over his shoulder, down to John, and quirks his eyebrow. He doesn't say anything else.

John's brows furrow. “You don't keep dead bodies in the fridge.” he states, but his tone is unsure.

“Entire bodies? Don't be foolish. The refrigerator is much too small to house entire corpses.” 

“Sherlock—“

“I'd rather show you the accommodations.” 

John stops him as they make their way into the sitting room once again. He turns him around. “You don't _really_ keep bodies in the fridge.” he states again, eyes inquisitive. Sherlock gives a strange smile, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to John's lips. “No, John. I don't keep bodies in the fridge.” he says quietly. John is sighing in relief when Sherlock speaks again, “Only bits and pieces.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is TECHNICALLY the final chapter. However, there's an epilogue! Expect it.


	12. Epilogue

His shoulder is stiff. It usually is first thing in the morning. Well, it is these days. Typically, he would sit upright, grab hold of his shoulder, and twist it in its socket. It would loosen up the muscles enough to ease the stiffness just enough, until the rest of the days activities properly stretched it. This morning, he doesn't move. He doesn't even open his eyes when he awakens. He can feel the weight of Sherlock's head resting between his shoulder blades, the press of his body half laying across his back. Sherlock's fingertips move very gently, gliding over the puckered skin around the scar on his shoulder. “It's been said that being shot feels like burning.” Sherlock's voice says quietly. John smiles. Of course he's realized John's awoken. “As I've never been shot, I'm unsure such claims are factual.”

“They are.” John replies, voice gruff with sleep. 

“I suppose the claims do have fact to them. Any metal object coming into contact with heat is sure to burn human skin. A metal object being forced quickly through the air via ignition. It's logical.” Sherlock mutters, circling the wound. “Not to mention the rate at which said object moves through the air. The friction alone would ignite some heat.” he continues in the same mumble. John knows he's talking to himself, cataloging the information properly in his head. They sit in silence once again. John feels Sherlock's leg shift in the small space between his. John rests his foot upon Sherlock's ankle.

“You don't want to be shot.” John says finally. He knows Sherlock is considering it, as an experiment, to evaluate the feeling. He can feel Sherlock's jaw clench against his skin. “It's no treat.”

“I never thought it would be.”

“I understand that you wouldn't think that, but I know the way your brain works, Sherlock.” 

“Do you?”

“You're wondering which place would cause the least permanent damage but maximize the potential feeling.” 

Sherlock is silent. “Perhaps you do.” he says after a moment. John chuckles quietly, shifting slightly. Sherlock moves as well, but only slightly. He moves his head to John's free shoulder, dragging his hand down to John's ribs and giving him a tight squeeze. “You're being a bit _obvious.”_ John tells him, face-to-face and touching at nose. Sherlock rolls his eyes, closing the small gap between their lips. “And now you realize the plight of my everyday existence. Dreadfully _dull_ when people are so predictable, wouldn't you agree?” he murmurs.

“Could think of worse things.” John claims.

“As in?”

“Well,” he says, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. “Could be in love with a madman for a decade without ever seeing him.” 

Sherlock smirks. “Hardly the same scenario.”

“Still worse than being bored by predictability.” 

“Perhaps.” Sherlock replies simply. He lifts himself minutely, sliding himself to lay across John's back. “And if I'm being earnest, I suppose predictability has its advantages as well.” Sherlock murmurs into John's neck. 

John smirks, shutting his eyes as Sherlock begins brushing his lips over John's skin. He feels Sherlock's hands run down both sides of his body, then make their way back up, curling around his biceps. “Does it?” he asks, suppressing the small chill that threatens to move him as Sherlock places an open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades. Sherlock hums against his skin, an affirmative noise, as he details John's back with his mouth. “It does. For example, it is predictable that when I stroke you here—“ Sherlock's hand slides down John's side once again, nothing but gentle swipes of his fingertips. He delicately prods his fingers beneath John, running a finger over his hip. John squirms. “—you are _sure_ to have a positive reaction.” 

John huffs a quiet laugh. “That _is_ quite predictable.” he murmurs. “Though I think I need more examples.”

“Oh, I have many.” Sherlock's breath tickles John's spine. 

“Do tell.”

“It is _also_ quite predictable that if I—“ Here, John feels the tip of Sherlock's tongue at the small of his back. He drags it up the length of John's spine, leading what seems to be a slow-rolling wave of chills. At the very top of John's back, at the base of his neck, Sherlock gives another warm, wet kiss. “—The probability of you becoming semi-erect is very high.” he murmurs into the back of John's ear. A shiver shoots through John, one that he can't fully conceal. Even after all this time, the effect Sherlock's voice has on him is _stupendous._ It seems to have only gotten more enticing with age. John takes a deep breath, allowing himself to fall into the sensations of Sherlock's mouth, which is trailing its way downward once again. 

“You must get bored of me.” John says, “I mean really, you read me like a book.”

“You are a book I never tire of.” Sherlock breathes into the small of his back. 

He feels Sherlock's hands grab hold of him once again, wrapping his fingers around the shape of John's body. He slides them up to John's ribs, and his body is flat against John's a moment later. “I can also predict that by now, you've amassed enough of an erection that laying upon it must be quite uncomfortable.” he mumbles against John's ear. 

John shifts slightly and hums an affirmative sound. 

Sherlock gives his ear an affectionate nip. “Is there anything I can do to assist you, Doctor?” he asks from somewhere quite low in his throat.

John's eyebrows raise in amusement. “Oh, there's many things I think you can assist me with, nurse.” he says with a cheeky smile. Sherlock chuckles quietly, sliding from John's body to the mattress once again. “Do tell.” he prompts, assisting John as he makes to lay on his back. John smirks as Sherlock once again stretches over him, resting his thigh between John's legs. “I may be having an issue in my pelvic region.” he says lightly, “Need you to take a _look_ for me.”

“Just a look?” Sherlock asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“May require a full exam. At your discretion.” John says in mock seriousness, face pulling into professional concern.

Sherlock returns the look. He gives a quick, sturdy nod as he begins moving down John's body, peppering it with gentle brushes of his lips. As he reaches John's hips, his eyebrows lift quickly and he pulls the bedclothes over his head. John can't help the small smile that cracks over his face. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sherlock nudges himself between John's legs. He can feel Sherlock's breath against his pelvis, hot and humid and enticing. He feels Sherlock's fingers wrap around him slowly, and he hisses at the sensation. 

“Seems to be _quite_ an issue.” Sherlock's voice is muffled by the cover. John smiles, shifting his body slightly. “I trust you can handle it.” he replies, sliding his hands beneath his pillow. He shuts his eyes, a happy, lazy smile making an appearance over his lips. He feels Sherlock's tongue against him and his breath catches in his chest. 

Sherlock's phone rings.

John's jaw clenches and he glances at it quickly, but Sherlock's voice rings clear, “Ignore it.” he demands. John glances at the bump in the bedclothes, the one that is Sherlock's head, and gives a one-shouldered shrug. He shuts his eyes once again.

The moment the phone stops ringing, it begins once again.

“Maybe it's important.” John suggests, glancing at the phone once again. He makes to shift enough to snatch it from the bedside table, but Sherlock's hands press quickly into his hips and trap him in his place. He appears momentarily from beneath the blanket, “Don't touch it.”

“But—“

“No.”

“As you wish.” 

Sherlock gives a single nod, flipping the bedclothes back over his head, and grabs him once again. John takes a deep breath as he feels Sherlock's lips slide around him. He's just about ready to lose himself in the sensations when Sherlock's phone springs to life once again. John huffs an agitated breath. “I'm looking at who it is.” He informs Sherlock. He can feel Sherlock about to make some kind of protest, but he squeezes his knees into Sherlock's sides, hard enough to stop him momentarily while John reaches and snatches the phone up.

“It's Lestrade.” 

“Oh, bloody Hell.” Sherlock's voice is full of irritation as he flips the covers back once again. He snatches the phone from John's grip and answers it with a harsh, “What.” 

John watches him. Sherlock takes a moment to listen. His face wears the agitation he's obviously feeling, though Lestrade is obviously not there to witness it. “Yes fine, I need a couple hours.” Sherlock says shortly. John can hear Lestrade's tinny voice on the other end. “Because I'm _busy,_ Detective Inspector.”

John quirks an eyebrow.

“In the middle of a very important exam.”

John has to suppress his giggles.

“John has a very serious issue that I'm currently handling. If you don't allow me to see to it immediately, I'll be forced to have you to listen to the healing process. Two hours.” He says, voice sharp and serious. John's face contorts in confusion. Sherlock ends the call promptly after that and chucks the phone to the side. “Sherlock, you—“

“He won't be interrupting for at least two hours.” He cuts John short, flashing a quick, smug smile as he makes his way back down and throwing the covers over himself once again.

“You're a bad, bad man.” John mutters as he feels Sherlock's mouth against his inner thigh.

“And you are a willing one.” Sherlock's words vibrate against John's skin. 

“Guilty as charged.” John says, exhaling a deep, satisfied breath and shutting his eyes.

  
  


  


  
  


John can hear the sound of the violin playing from the bottom of the stairwell. 

Well, he says playing.

It's more like a rough scratching. A dissonant scratching against the strings. And loud, at that. It's harboring frustration behind it. The sound carries Sherlock's agitation all the way down the stairwell and into John's ears. John can't for the life of him think of a reason Sherlock might be _that_ agitated. The case he'd been on had been—from what John had gathered—relatively easy. Surely something couldn't have gone wrong in the half hour he'd gone to Tesco's? 

As he makes his way up the stairs (limp long gone, thanks to Sherlock's consistent doses of adrenaline via heart-racing cases or _various other activities)_ he hears a voice. It's fairly quiet beneath the scratching of the violin, but John can tell it's male and quite lofty. He furrows his eyebrows, making his way into the flat through the kitchen door to set down the bags. 

Sherlock's turned to the window, violin poised at his cheek. He stops the bow mid-stroke and takes a deep, visible breath. There's an older man sitting in John's armchair. “John,” he hears Sherlock say, “Your wish has been granted.”

John makes his way into the sitting room, talking slow steps to reveal the face of the man sitting in the chair. He's dressed in a three piece suit. Dark hair, light eyes. He's fairly thin and seems to be miles of limbs, ones that he's appropriated quite eloquently. John looks to Sherlock. “My wish?”

“Do forgive my brother's incorrigible behaviour,” the man says, glancing at Sherlock's back slowly before looking to John. “He seems to be under the impression I've come to admonish him.” 

“You came to nose about. No need to play daft. You're a horrid actor.”

“Your brother?” John says, looking to Sherlock's back. Sherlock shoots him a quick glance and gives a single nod. “This is Mycroft?” he says, looking to the man in the chair. John is shocked. Mycroft is nothing as he imagined. Though, in all fairness, he hadn't much time to imagine Mycroft. Sherlock was always quick to eliminate the thought process. Mycroft turns back to Sherlock as though John hadn't spoken.“Now Sherlock, had you any inclination to return any of my phone calls, perhaps I wouldn't have to come unannounced.” Mycroft replies silkily, “You know I do so worry about you.”

“You haven't a need.”

John watches their exchange as one might a golf match. His eyes dart from Holmes to Holmes, unsure how to approach either. He clears his throat, and both Holmes' turn to look at him. “Does... anyone fancy a cuppa?” he asks awkwardly. He's not entirely sure how to proceed.

“Mycroft was just leaving.” Sherlock says, voice cool. He settles his violin and bow into his seat and stares imploringly to his brother. Mycroft has a strange smile sitting on his lips. He stands, chin lifted. He looks down his nose to Sherlock and quirks an eyebrow, then looks to John. “It's been a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft says. John isn't quite sure if he's serious. He decides to proceed with caution. “Likewise.” he says, bringing a small smile to his lips. 

Mycroft doesn't say anything more. He flashes a sardonic smile to Sherlock, then politely strides from the room and makes his way from the flat. Sherlock visibly relaxes, shaking his head slightly as he finally strides to meet John. “So that's the infamous.” John says, catching Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock sighs, resting his chin on top of John's head and wrapping his arms around his neck. “Fat git.” he mutters.

“He doesn't seem all that bad.”

He can feel Sherlock sneer at the words, and so he presses a gentle, hopefully _soothing_ kiss to his throat. “He only came about to get a glimpse of you in person. As though you're some sort of sideshow.” Sherlock grumbles. John frowns. “In person?”

“Mycroft, as I've explained, has access to any information he deems necessary. Which is, more often than I care to think about, pertaining to my personal life.” Sherlock says through a sigh. John purses his lips. “He's got all my information, then.” John says after a moment.

“And more, I'm sure.”

“Well, that's not _completely_ unnerving.” John mutters. Sherlock heaves yet another sigh and squeezes John tighter. “Don't pay any attention to him.” Sherlock assures. He begins pushing John, forcing him to waunder backward. John's face is still pressed into Sherlock's throat. He allows Sherlock to lead him. He seems to know where they're heading.“Allow me to make up for my brother's unwanted appearance.” Sherlock says, dropping his voice to the low purr that hits John in just the right ways. 

John shuts his eyes, smiling as he brushes open mouth kisses to Sherlock's Adam's apple. “I guess I can allow it.” he says, locking his arms tighter. “Depending on what you've got in mind.” 

“I seem to recall you having a fondness for any form of sexual debauchery.” Sherlock murmurs. John feels himself hit a solid wall that seems to ricochet away from him. _Ah. The door._ John hums into his neck, giving him a small nibble. “I think I might just be fond of you saying the word _debauchery.”_ he confesses. “Go on, say it again.” John whispers. Sherlock gives a low chuckle. “ _Debauchery.”_ he growls. _Oh._ John had only been half-joking, but with Sherlock's snarl, it _does_ seem to have an... _interesting_ effect on his body. 

“Quite like that. May have to work it into everyday speech.”

“As you wish.”

They pause for just a moment, crushing their lips against one another. Their lips move in aggressive motions, tongues sliding against one another, punctuated with nips and nibbles. John finally feels the back of his knees hit the mattress and he allows himself to tumble backward. He keeps his hold on Sherlock, bringing him down against him quite forcefully. They don't waste much time in stripping one another, rushing through buttons and shoelaces and zippers with expertise. Sherlock has a way of being in many places at once, John has always felt. He seems to feel Sherlock's nimble fingers all over him— pressing at his jaw and sliding over his ribs and grabbing at his hips and stroking him to full arousal.

John runs his hands over Sherlock's back, embedding his purposely-trimmed-short nails gently into his skin as he slides them downward. Sherlock's back arches beneath the scratches, rolling in a long wave against John's body. The collision of their hips sends a welcomed chill through both of them. 

“I'm allowing you _cart blanche_.” Sherlock murmurs into John's neck. “To make up for such a _scarring_ meeting.” 

“Is that right?”

“My body is yours to handle as you wish.” 

John grabs hold of Sherlock at the ribs and, with a grace mastered with much practice, flips him to his back. He slots himself against his body and gives him a quick, deep kiss. “All this freedom. Don't even know where to start.” he mutters against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock scoffs, lips pulling into John's favorite smirk. “I have a few ideas. Admittedly, most of them involve skipping a rather vast amount of foreplay and having you crudely take me in a slew of different positions.” he growls, “Though I suppose if you'd prefer something a bit _torturous_ , you are entitled to such.”

Sherlock has the ability to throw John back into his twenties, where his libido seems to be manic and hungry and he realizes quite suddenly that Sherlock's idea is much, much better than anything he could possibly think of. He sits upright, giving Sherlock's thighs a couple playful taps as he commands, “On your belly.” 

Sherlock does as commanded and does so rather quickly. He scoots himself up onto the bed and centers himself, then flops stomach down into the mattress. John gives a nod of approval, clambering over the mattress and slotting his body over Sherlock's. “You've got... a superb arse. Have I ever told you?” he murmurs the back of Sherlock's ear. He's attempting to be smooth, reaching blindly toward the bedside drawer to pull their provisions from it. He watches Sherlock's lips pull into a smirk. “I don't recall it ever being mentioned verbally. I've always run with the assumption you were fond of it, however, as you do take such care of it.” he replies quietly. 

“It's one of my favorite aspects of you.” John presses his lips into the crook of Sherlock's neck as he finally snags his hands on the necessary items. Sherlock makes an affirmative noise. “What are the others?” he asks offhandedly.

“I've a list.”

“Feel free to divulge.”

“May inflate your ego.”

“As though my _ego_ could become any larger than it already is.”

John laughs, dragging his lips over the base of Sherlock's neck. “Your hips.” John begins, allowing his free hand to slide beneath Sherlock's lean frame and touch the familiar bone. “Your lips. Your eyes. Your shoulder blades. Your ribs.” he lists off as he slides hot, wet kisses down Sherlock's back. “Your fingers. Your calves. Every bit of your skin.” he continues. 

“Sounds like a rather detailed way to say that you favor every aspect of me.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“Your bellybutton. Your neck.” 

“Oh I'm sorry, did I interrupt?”

“Your ears. Your hair. Your cheekbones. Your thighs.” 

“You know, you've not said anything about my—“

“Your cock.” 

“Ah, there it is. Rather far down on the list, I fear.”

John smirks as he sits himself upright. He gives Sherlock's arse a quick smack, to which Sherlock's body seems to jump minutely. “Oh, I didn't mention that, did I?” John says, uncapping the bottle and pouring a liberal amount of the lubricant into his hand. “Wasn't in order. Just whichever bits came to me first.” He rubs his hands together, slathering it properly over and between his fingers. Sherlock chuckles quietly. “And I suppose you _won't_ be indulging me in the proper order of your list.” 

“Definitely not. Changes too frequently to tell.” He says simply. He reaches forward, his fingertips gently prodding the cleft of Sherlock's arse. He feels Sherlock's body tense for only a moment as he gently massages him, waiting until he's completely relaxed until he slips a single finger inside. “Have you got a list about me?” he inquires casually. Sherlock inhales, his body stretching longer. “I can't say I do.” he retorts. “I have itemized every piece of you, but I haven't chosen favourites. It would be, I fear, impossible.” He moans around the last word, gripping the pillow he is casually hanging on to as John slips another finger inside. 

“Would it be?”

“I suppose I too could go through a rather arduous recanting of every limb and feature you have, but it may leave us discussing body parts for much longer than I'd care to.” 

“ _You_ don't want to discuss body parts?” John asks in mock surprise.

Sherlock scoffs, “I've only got a _few_ in mind at this moment. One of which I believe I _need. Now._ ”

John smirks. “Demanding, are we?”

“Extremely. I had a thought as well.”

John quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“If we were to possibly _skip_ the contraceptive.”

John pauses for a split second, but manages to continue without causing any tension. “Without a condom.” John says simply. He can hear Sherlock swallow, and he watches as he nods. “I've been tested. I found it a simple precaution to take, though an unnecessary one.” he says. His voice has gone slightly clinical. John knows it is his default when discussing a matter that of relevance. “I am making an assumption that you are also clear. As a doctor, I feel it's a safe assumption.”

“It is.”

“And as we intend on being monogamous, it seems unlikely that either of us would contract anything—“

“Sherlock?” John interrupts.

“Yes?”

“Alright.” he says simply. “But now I'm going to need you to do say something rather sexy, as I've just been given a sex-ed speech.” His tone is playful and he really _is_ only joking. Despite the discussion, he finds he's still quite ready to take Sherlock in whichever way he's allowed. Sherlock smirks. “Should I make mention of the pleasure I take in _sucking your cock_ , or would you prefer I babble about the incessant _need_ I feel to have you inside me?” he asks casually.

John's stomach lurches and he no longer feels the need to play. He instead feels the need to act.

“Bad man.” he murmurs as he slips his fingers from Sherlock. He uses any excess on his hands to rub over himself, the sensation quite thrilling as neither had paid much attention to such. Sherlock slides his hips upward just slightly, enough for John to properly position himself. John balances himself on one arm and uses the other to grab hold of Sherlock's hip. Then he slowly, deliciously slides himself inside.

The sensation is _deafening._ Sherlock is more than simply warm, he is _hot._ John is unable to keep from groaning between clenched teeth at the sensation. He can see Sherlock's face, contorting from something like pained to everything like pleasured, in a split second. It seems to take forever to feel the bump of Sherlock's skin against John's pelvis. 

“ _Christ.”_ John exhales, allowing his arms to fold beneath him. He lays over Sherlock's back, wrapping one hand beneath his shoulder and the other at his hip. He presses his lips to the base of Sherlock's neck, mouth open and tongue sneaking its way over his skin. “ _Now,_ John.” Sherlock murmurs, shifting his head and allowing his teeth to meet John's hand. 

John has to pace himself. The feeling is nearly overwhelming. It's completely sensational and absolutely brilliant but _definitely_ has the ability to make him overzealous if he doesn't. So he rocks his entire body, pushing and pulling slowly. He shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck, gripping his hip tight. He listens to Sherlock's breathing, to the quiet grunts and gasps and whispered affirmations he makes. 

“You—“ John begins, but he can't finish his thought. 

“ _Jesus_ , yes.” Sherlock groans.

John's hand moves from Sherlock's shoulder to his neck, splaying and curling around his throat gently. He feels for Sherlock's pulse, slipping his finger just beneath his jaw. It is strong beneath the pads of his fingers, beating in a quick, solid rhythm. John mimics its tempo, rolling his hips in time with each beat of Sherlock's pulse. 

Sherlock whimpers. It's quiet and mostly forced into his pillow but John hears it and feels himself fill with pride. He knows what that means. He drags his hand from Sherlock's hip and props himself up upon his elbow, then gently forces Sherlock's head back. “Yes?” he ask through gritted teeth. Sherlock's eyes are closed and his lips are parted. He can't seem to say much, but he nods fairly enthusiastically. John smiles to himself, snatching up Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock pants, “I'm not going to...” he trails off into a gasp as John gives a semi-aggressive thrust.

“Don't.” John demands. He's not going to last for much longer himself. Between the constriction and the heat and the sensation of skin to skin, he's quite fortunate he's lasted as long as he has. But the longer he goes, the more likely it'll be that Sherlock will come, despite never laying a finger on his erection. This fills John with much more pride than he thought he could have. He allows Sherlock's head to drop back into the pillow. He wraps both arms under Sherlock's shoulders and bites into the crook of his neck. He feels Sherlock's body beginning to tense, feels the muscles in his shoulders flex as he grips his pillow hard. “ _John.”_ he breathes, just before a quiet, strangled cry forces itself from his throat. John isn't far behind, finds his own head begin to spin and his toes begin to curl, all quite instinctively as the wave travels down John's spine and directly into his hips. He bites into Sherlock's skin just slightly harder than he'd intended to, covering up the much-too-loud moan that was begging to tear itself from him.

Both men are panting. John's body is limp and tired, and he's tempted to ask Sherlock if he fancies a quick kip. But he can't even manage to speak as he slowly slides himself from Sherlock's body. He shuts his eyes and swallows, attempting to wet his throat.

“Good God.” Sherlock says after a moment of silence. A small laugh escapes him.

“Yeah.” John adds dimly.

They go back to silence once more, still attempting to catch their breath. John's brain is rebooting, it seems. He's finally coming to, able to breathe properly and perhaps even formulate sentences. He looks to Sherlock, who looks as though he's fallen asleep. “Sherlock.” John says quietly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replies.

“Just had a thought.”

Sherlock opens his eyes lazily and peers at John. 

“You mentioned being monogamous.” he says. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow slowly. He's waiting. “Which means that you were thinking in absolutes, right? That there's no one else.” 

“Yes.”

“When I was stationed, I wrote you a letter once.” John hears himself saying. “Just the once. I wanted to get you out of my head. In it, I mentioned that when we'd been together, I always thought we were going to be a _forever_ sort of deal. At the time I wrote it, it sounded a bit crap, because we weren't together and I was sure I wasn't ever going to see you again.” Sherlock is watching him. His eyes are a little brighter, his attention is focused properly. John scoots close to Sherlock's body and lays an arm over his back. “Sometimes, I lay here and think about how _lucky_ we are to have met again. But then some silly, sort of superstitious side of me starts thinking that... well, it doesn't just _happen_ that way, does it? People don't go an entire decade without seeing one another and then just happen to have the same friend.”

“On occasion they do.”

“The same friend, who neither of us knew was acquainted with the other, who happens to think we'd get on enough to be flatmates. Sort of think that sounds a bit... I don't know, _destined.”_

Sherlock gives a small scoff. John knows he's sounding silly, sounding overly-romantic, but he can't help himself. He's feeling quite _bubbly_ and intensely _in love_ and he wants to spend the rest of his day laying right there where he is, with Sherlock right where he is, and not think about anything more than how much he _loves_ Sherlock Holmes. “You know as well as I do that such things don't exist.” Sherlock murmurs, bringing a hand to John's cheek. “Destiny, fate...”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” John says with a sigh.

Sherlock lets a half smile curl his mouth. He presses a gentle kiss to John's lips and leans his forehead against his. “However,” he says after a moment, “When it comes to you... I may be a bit more _open_ to such ideas.” 

John smiles. “Yeah?”

Sherlock nods. “I don't think, in all ten years we were apart, I'd ever considered seeing you again. Though the thought pained me terribly, I thought I had the ability to live on. I may not have, now that I know. Now that I've captured a glimpse of it.” 

“Have I mentioned today that I love you?” John asks, giving Sherlock's mouth a quick peck.

“I don't believe you have.” Sherlock replies.

“Well, let me tell you then. I love you.” He says quietly.

Sherlock's small smile turns into a grin. He presses another kiss to John's mouth, then another and another still until finally John captures him in a proper kiss. The two men take a long moment to simply stare at one another before Sherlock finally speaks. “Allow me to inform _you_ then, John Hamish Watson, that I—in fact—love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Thus completes my first AU. This also marks the end of my first ever multi-chapter fic! Hey, it's a first all over the place!
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment here and now to thank you (thank you, thank you, thank you) for reading my little tale here. Thank you for reading along, for loving along, for hating and crying along, and more than any of that, thank you for ENJOYING along with me. 
> 
> You've been a blast. Yes, you. All my love to you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Giants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/451794) by [thegirlinthedeathfrisbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee/pseuds/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee)




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